Kizuna means
by cedricsowner
Summary: My take on what a third season might have been like. Case fics, minimal shipping. Mind the rating. FINAL CHAPTER UP NOW!
1. Ilsa, meet Emma

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_**~ Ilsa, meet Emma ~**_

_A government-style open-plan office sometime before noon. Lots of suits in muted colors. A man reaches out to grab the ringing phone on his desk. His jacket rides up a little and reveals a holstered weapon. _

_The elevator signals. The doors slide open and three very grave looking men exit. As they slowly make their way through the office, all conversations come to a halt. They walk up to the mezzanine conference room section and open one of the glass doors. It's adorned with an engraved round seal, shield with scales in the center, laurels left and right, motto underneath - fidelity bravery integrity - and surrounded by thirteen stars. _

_They interrupt an ongoing conference. Everyone stares at them. The man in the darkest suit addresses one of the participants: _

_"You are under arrest. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford one, one will be appointed to you." _

_Everything turns pitch black._

In a rundown apartment somewhere in one of the seedier parts of Washington, D.C., Emma Barnes jerked awake. She stared into the semi-darkness for a moment, waiting for her breathing to normalize. When her pulse wouldn't stop racing, she switched on the lamp on her makeshift nightstand. "It was a dream, Emma, just a dream", she kept repeating like a mantra.

A mantra she had been saying a lot lately.

Every night for three weeks in a row, to be precise.

She felt the urge to get up and take a shower again, but her last had been only three hours ago. Her skin didn't take kindly to so much water and soap, it was already raw and itchy at some places and she really didn't need another problem on top of everything else.

The soft golden light of the night lamp revealed a tiny mouse, scurrying to and fro her bedroom floor, apparently looking for a way out. Emma figured she had accidentally blockaded the rodent's hole while shifting around moving boxes earlier in the day. She couldn't help but likening herself to the animal.

Cautiously, trying not to scare the tiny thing, she opened the bedroom door a crack so it could flee.

Gone it was.

Emma caught herself wishing she was the mouse.

She checked her mobile for new messages.

Nothing. For two days straight now.

This was even worse than getting a message. She felt like a puppet on a string, waiting for the master to pull.

Jesus, how could she have ever let it come to this?

"Relax, Emma", she tried to calm herself one more time. "You need to be at your best tomorrow, you can't afford this BS."

But sleep didn't come back to her.

Not even for a second.

An old Crowded House song kept replaying in her mind: _The guilty get not sleep..._

The guilty, indeed.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_24 hours before, the warehouse, rather early in the morning. _

Chance pressed the stop button of the answering machine he had placed on the table and looked at the gathered members of his crew: Winston, Ames, Guerrero.

Guerrero had just received a text message: _new s/w avail_

_prc?_, he texted back, then returned his attention to Chance and the effects of the answering machine's message on the others.

Winston didn't look happy.

He didn't look happy at all.

"So what do you think?", Chance asked, deliberately addressing everyone, not just Winston. It wasn't that difficult to guess what _he_ was thinking.

Ames gave the answering machine a quizzical look. "What is this?"

"Chance got a number reserved for family and friends", Guerrero explained. "Leads directly here." He nodded at the machine.

"So you know her well?" Ames arched a nosy eyebrow at Chance.

Winston snorted. "Name's Emma Barnes. _FBI Agent_ Emma Barnes. We ran into her on a job or two." He gave Chance a meaningful look.

"Sounds like she needs help", Ames stated.

Not exactly what Winston wanted to hear.

"Yeah? Did you hear her ask for help? _I_ didn't."

Chance shifted in his seat. He had known from the beginning this would be a tough one to sell on Winston. "Well, technically not, but…"

_"_She _sounded _like was asking for help", Ames chimed in.

Chance made a "See?" gesture pointing at Ames, but looking at Winston. Winston opened his mouth, but before he could give his friend the answer he felt he deserved – one of the yelling kind - the elevator signaled. Chance hectically grabbed the answering machine, apparently to make it disappear.

"Dude, don't."

Chance gave Guerrero a puzzled look.

"If you really wanna go through with this partnership thing, you can't keep on hiding things from her."

Now it was Winston's turn to give him a puzzled look.

"Who are you and what did you do with Guerrero?"

The distinctive click-clack of expensive high heels approached. Chance hid the answering machine.

… … …

Ilsa entered the kitchen area and found herself face-to-face with four way too innocent-looking team members: Ames was texting on her mobile, Winston was reading the newspaper, Chance was stirring his coffee and Guerrero was sipping his tea. She took in the scene for a long moment. Whom were they trying to fool? She'd definitely been around them long enough to deserve more than such a lame attempt of pretending everything was perfectly normal.

"What is going on here?"

"Nothing!", came the unison reply from Chance, Winston and Ames. Guerrero merely continued sipping his tea in silence.

Oh yes, very believable.

She kept resting her eyes on them, aiming at making it very clear that she was the boss and wasn't buying any of that BS.

The men could have ignored her attempts at intimidating them for hours – once you've been through real torture a couple of times, a pissed off woman's stare somewhat loses its impact – but Ames grew uncomfortable and finally spoke up: "I've got… a problem… it's a sensitive issue. Maybe you could set some time aside? I could do with another woman's opinion…"

Ilsa rolled her eyes.

"If you had a problem, Ms. Ames, sensitive or otherwise, I could read about it on twitter."

"You're reading my tweets?"

_"_It's a great way of keeping track on people without having to rely on illegal measures such as bugs..."

She looked pointedly at Guerrero.

"´...and also often a lot more effective than having to listen through hours of secret recordings. How is the house purchase going, by the way? You and Alejandro decided against the condo in South Beach after all?"

The corners of Guerrero's mouth twitched. He looked at Chance who was fighting a smile, too. After a short non-verbal debate he caved in, produced the answering machine and pressed the play button.

Emma Barnes' voice spoke up once more.

_"It's me. It's been a while. I just wanted… I'm… It's nothing. Everything is alright, I'm just… Oh, forget that I ever called."_

Ilsa stifled a sigh.

"Another Maria?"

Chance opened his hands in a placating gesture, giving her his most innocent facial expression.

"We never had a relationship."

"Did you want one?"

Whoa, this one came out of the blue.

"Excuse me, when did you start asking such indiscreet questions? That's private!"

_"_Since someone stole my jet for nothing but _private_ reasons."

"_Hijacked_. When you force the pilot to fly an airplane somewhere, it's _hijacking_, in contrast to _stealing_, which would mean taking the plane without the pilot. And besides that…" Chance made a dramatic pause."…we saved the life of a major peace activist."

"…who happened to be married to your ex-girlfriend. Are you planning to _hijack_ the jet again? Shall I have it refueled?"

Ames made waving gestures with her hands.

"Excuse me, but there's a woman out there who might need our help."

Pursing her lips, Ilsa hit the button of the answering machine again.

Emma Barnes' voice replayed.

Ilsa hit the stop button.

"Well, she _does_ sound distraught."

_**A/N: Thank you, ladybug, for leaving a comment! It means a lot to me!**_


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_The present. Washington Dulles International Airport some time before noon. The van, parked in the Daily Lot east of the Main Terminal. _

"And you're sure you got that right?" Winston still couldn't believe it. "Sounds like some Hollywood BS to me."

"Mission: Impossible II, dude." Guerrero's voice via earpiece.

Winston stared at the security feed from the airport and shook his head: "What the hell has she been thinking?"

… … …

The young marine arrived at Dulles International Airport in a rather decrepit state. He felt hung over like hell and couldn't remember a thing about last night. Boy, what in the world had those frog eaters spiked his drink with? Come to think of it in the cold light of the day he was quite sure that blond woman he had been flirting with had slipped him something. She had been way out of his league… Oddly enough, nothing was missing, neither his wallet nor his watch or his brand new mobile. And there was this strange itching spot on the inside of his arm...

He was on edge.

Six months of service in Afghanistan had taught him to trust his gut feeling.

And his gut feeling said something was off.

Slowly he made his way through airport security.

… … …

"She does know that letting her agents lump together in groups like that is highly conspicuous, doesn't she?" Winston couldn't believe what he was seeing on the monitors in the van.

"Two back entrances aren't covered", Guerrero pointed out.

"The main exit area is full of people; easy to slip through. Why in the world does she want to do it here? Why not wait till he's home?" Chance's voice via earpiece. He was just as puzzled as the other two. Such a sloppily planned operation. Totally not Emma's style.

… … …

Almost at the door, an attractive brunet stepped into the young marine's way.

"Welcome home, Sergeant Malhoney."

He smile was winning and extraordinarily friendly.

Okay, the second beautiful woman within 24 hours flirting with him.

Something was definitely off.

He almost wished he was back on the battlefield. There he would at least have his gun at hand.

"Excuse me, I don't think…"

The woman's smile grew even wider. "We've never met, no. Emma Barnes, FBI. There's been a tiny little misunderstanding regarding your transfer papers. If you'd come with me we'll clear that up in no time."

Almost the same second she said it, it dawned on Emma that letting him know that she was FBI was probably not reassuring. Why should the FBI care about a minor transfer papers issue?

She could have kicked herself.

… … …

"She smiles too much, her movements are tense…" Chance didn't let Emma out of his sight.

"The boy's picking up on it, dude", Guerrero warned.

Even Winston in the van could see it. "See how he slightly tilts his head? He's looking for an escape route."

"And the suits are advancing on them, as inconspicuous as a herd of rhinos…" Chance made a hand signal and Guerrero disappeared into the crowd of newly arrived passengers.

"She just won for worst planned operation ever", Guerrero grumbled.

… … …

Sergeant Malhoney couldn't quite believe what was going on. He had just survived six months of Afghanistan, and this was his welcome home?

"What's going on here?"

Emma's smile became even more artificial.

"Nothing, just some routine paperwork, no need to worry…"

Even to Emma's ears this sounded highly unbelievable.

The sergeant made a decision. With one swift movement he grabbed her, twisted her around, wrested the weapon from her hidden holster and had her at gun point. Panic broke out, travelers started running to and fro, the advancing groups of FBI men stopped dead in their tracks.

Through clenched teeth, he hissed at Barnes: "I woke up this morning hung over as hell with an itch on my arm. I didn't drink that much and come to think of it, that itch looks damn well like an injection site. And now this welcoming committee! What THE HELL is going on here?"

One of the FBI agents made a sudden move. The marine pushed Barnes towards the groups of FBI people and fled outside.

… … …

Directly in front of the airport, where usually only taxis waited, the young man spotted a private car, apparently waiting to pick someone up. He yanked the door open and pointed the gun at the driver: "Start the car, now!"

Heart racing like crazy, he slumped into the passenger's seat.

"I'm sorry for this, I really am."

Guerrero, at the steering wheel, slowly turned and looked at him with a rather sad expression.

"No dude, _I_'m sorry."

Chance jumped the marine from the backseat and pulled a hood over his head while Guerrero grabbed the gun and handcuffed him.

… … …

Totally off the rail, Emma Barnes and the rest of her team rushed outside the airport. No sergeant in sight.

"Spread out!"

But it was useless. The marine was gone. When it became clear that she had failed big time, Emma sent her people back to HQ and headed to her SUV in a state of desperation. She sagged into her car seat, grabbed her phone and punched in a number.

"Sir, I'm afraid I have to tell you…"

Stopping dead in mid-sentence, she stared at the steering wheel. Someone had attached a note to it.

_TRUNK_

She switched off the phone, got out of her car, walked around it and opened the tailgate. There was the missing marine, lying in the trunk, bound at hands and feet.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_Emma Barnes' apartment, late in the evening. _

Totally spent after the events of the day, Emma unlocked the door to her apartment. She wouldn't have thought it possible, but in the dim glow of the bare light bulb dangling from the ceiling it looked even shabbier than in daylight.

Aiming at positive thinking, she tried to tell herself that once the moving boxes would be gone and the pieces of furniture would have found a permanent position, this would be a cozy little retreat.

Let's say it all together: Cozy. Little. Retreat.

Positive thinking, Emma, positive thinking…

Oh come on, whom was she kidding?

Here and there (read: everywhere) wallpaper was coming off the walls, the mouse had left some tiny little round brown gifts on the worn carpet and as Emma made her way to what masqueraded as her kitchen, the flush of a toilet in the next apartment, a crying baby and a fighting couple in Spanish (Russian?) could be heard.

Without looking, she threw her keys in the direction of the kitchen table cluttered with old take-out cartons, dirty glasses and unopened envelopes.

She walked over to the fridge.

Wait, something was wrong.

The keys had made no clanging sound from hitting the table.

Emma spun around.

Chance was standing next to the table, keys in his hand.

"So you've moved…"

… … …

"Everything is perfectly fine", Emma insisted. "And just for the record, I didn't need a knight in shining armor back at the airport this morning. Everything was going according to plan."

"Unless your plan was getting transferred to Siberia for blatant incompetence, I'm not buying any of this." Chance took in Emma's appearance with concern. Maybe the poor lighting was adding to it, but she did look bad: Her hair needed to be cut, her skin was pale, she had lost weight, the way she dressed was unbecoming…

Her face took on a look of defiance. "I've got everything under control."

Last time he had heard that sentence it had come from Guerrero.

In a federal prison.

While he was being charged with murder in the first degree.

"You infect an unsuspecting marine with a deadly virus in an attempt to transport it to the USA…"

"Best way to avoid attention! This virus is of immeasurable importance in the war against terrorism."

"…not only that you grossly disrespected a war veteran, you also let him slip through your fingers in one of the worst planned operations ever. What would you have done if you hadn't got hold of him before the end of the incubation period?"

"It was a calculated risk", Emma hissed through clenched teeth.

"It that's the government's idea of a _calculated risk_, I should start relying on sleeping pills for getting rest at night…" Winston rounded the corner and nodded at her. "Long time no see."

"I can only repeat myself", Emma snarled. "Everything is fine. I really don't know what got into me when I called you, but there's nothing…."

A muffled clomp sound could be heard from the corridor.

"Three months ago you sold your old place and moved in here. Before that you sold your car. And before that you emptied your bank accounts." Guerrero rounded the corner, holding a dead mouse by its tail. "Looks to me like you're getting blackmailed. Question is, why." He tried to pass the mouse to Winston, who, concentrating on Emma and fooled by the casualty with which he was handling the tiny corpse, almost took it.

"Emma, sit down", Chance told her. "Let's talk this over."

To his great surprise, she didn't merely sit down but pretty much collapse on her kitchen chair instead, all composure suddenly evaporating.

"You've killed the mouse!"

… … …

If there's one thing that hard-boiled ex-assassins/-cops have trouble dealing with, it's crying women.

Especially if the crying woman in question is someone they totally didn't expect this from.

The three men exchanged unsure glances. Chance's usual response would have been kissing the tears away. Guerrero at this stage normally pointed out to his victim that there was more pain to come, shouldn't he get the respective information _now_ and Winston most likely would have fled, but neither reaction seemed appropriate right now.

"What shall we do, a Black Sail?", Chance volunteered.

"Finless Shark?", Guerrero suggested.

"X-File Option Two?" Winston was just as clueless as the other two.

"Or maybe you just let _me_ talk to her." They all turned around. Ilsa was standing in the doorway, accompanied by Ames who was still busy putting her picklocks away. She looked at the guys with a "What can I say? She's the boss." – expression.

"Weren't you supposed to stay in San Francisco?" Chance wasn't exactly happy about her appearance. "We're doing fine here."

Ilsa threw him a meaningful look.

"I can see that."

She pulled up a chair and sat down. "Miss Barnes? My name is Ilsa Pucci. We haven't been introduced yet."

… … …

"I can't believe she just shooed us out of the kitchen!" Chance was staring daggers at the closed door of the bedroom Ilsa had told them to retreat to.

"Dude, get over it. Maybe a heart-to-heart woman-to-woman talk is exactly what she needs right now." Guerrero nodded at Ames, cueing her to boot up Emma Barnes' computer.

"She's got no business inserting herself in this!"

"She's your _partner_..." Guerrero directed Ames to the deleted sections of the computer's hard drive.

Winston, who had started opening the various moving boxes, suddenly stopped. "Chance, come here and look at this."

… … …

Emma couldn't quite pinpoint it, but she disliked this Ilsa Pucci immediately. There was something about the way she spoke, the way she carried herself… Her demeanor spoke of money, dinner parties, kisses to the cheek and elaborate small talk while intrigues were spun behind the façade of painted smiles. Emma had collided with this type of women all her life.

No way she was going to confide anything to her.

… … …

"Apparently she collected material about the Blue Ridge Mountain killer", Winston stated as he skipped through the files he had retrieved from one of the boxes.

"She seems to have collected everything she could get hold of", Chance agreed. "Newspaper clippings, crime scene photos…"

"Remember how obsessively she tried to find you? Looks like she found a new object of desire."

"Yeah, but something isn't right…" Chance squinted his eyes, pulled out a folder full of clippings and started spreading them out on the floor.

… … …

"As I told Chance, you're making a mountain out of a molehill. What is your connection to him anyway?" Emma had her composure back. The mere presence of this woman annoyed the hell out of her, and that helped a great deal.

Come to think of it, the whole situation annoyed the hell out of her, this crappy apartment, the operation at the airport almost gone wrong, the fact that there was still no new message from that bastard who was threatening her and, most of all, that she, Emma Barnes, was responsible for the whole mess.

"He's my business partner", Ilsa replied.

The way she said "partner", with that possessive undertone…

"Well then I suggest you take your _partner_ and leave for there is absolutely nothing I've got to tell you."

But Ilsa didn't need to be told anything. She could read the signs.

… … …

"The youngest of those clippings are from six months ago", Chance pointed out.

Winston quickly checked a couple of the documents in the other folders. "Everything is at least six months old."

"So she stopped investigating this guy six months ago. Why? Did she catch him? Did the Blue Ridge Mountain killer get caught?", Chance asked Ames.

She did a quick online check with her smart phone since Guerrero was busy restoring deleted files from Emma's computer.

"Nope. Still no trace of him."

"Then why did she stop looking for him? This all of a sudden breaks off…" Winston rubbed his forehead.

"There's only one explanation, dude…"

Guerrero locked eyes with Chance. Chance shook his head. "No way. She's not like that."

… … …

"I'm terribly sorry", Ilsa said.

"Sorry about what?", Emma all but spat back.

"The skin of your hands and around your neck is raw and most likely itchy, too. That's from washing it too often and using too much soap. You've been trying to scrub something off… You're also wearing several layers of clothes, despite the warm temperatures outside. You're trying to protect your body against something… someone…"

… … …

"I think the computer program has managed to restore the deleted files!", Ames interrupted Guerrero and Chance.

She opened the recovered data and almost immediately let out a sharp hiss.

The men only needed to take one look at them to know what they were dealing with. "I'm going to delete them again", Guerrero told the others.

"Do it thoroughly." Chance's voice was shaking with barely controlled anger.

… … …

Emma jumped up from her chair, ready to physically remove Ilsa Pucci – and company! She could kick herself for calling Chance in a moment of weakness - from her kitchen and her life.

At this very moment, the door to her kitchen opened and Chance walked back in. The rest was hovering in the background.

"We found the photos you deleted", he said hoarsely. "Six months ago you tracked down the Blue Ridge Mountain killer and finished him off. Someone found out and started blackmailing you. First he took all of your money and now he's asking for your body, forced you to send him explicit pictures. How far has that bastard gotten?"

Emma's mobile signaled.

A new text message had arrived.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_Still the same night. A cheap hotel room. Emma lying on the floor, blindfolded, hands cuffed on her back. _

At least the earpiece was still in place and working.

"Could we reevaluate the whole "worst planned operation ever"-thing? Because I think this one is storming the field from behind…" Emma rubbed her face against her shoulder in an attempt to get rid of the cloth blocking her eyesight.

"The word _operation_, deriving from Latin _operatio_, by definition implies a certain level of lead time. Since your blackmailer gave you 45 minutes to make it to this dosshouse and thus left _us_ 45 minutes to get ready for the confrontation with him, I seriously dispute there having been any lead time to speak of. Consequently the word "operation" is not applicable here. I'm sorry, but your escapade at the airport remains on top of the list." Ilsa had insisted on joining Winston in the van. In hindsight not a bad decision since Winston's presence was now required outside, in the maze of back alleys behind the motel where the blackmailer had sought refuge. They were systematically blocking his escape routes, he wouldn't get far.

Hopefully.

"Thank you for the lecture, Mrs. Pucci", Emma replied through clenched teeth. The damn fold just wouldn't come off.

"Got him, Chance." Guerrero's voice via earpiece. "He's heading north."

"I'm heading north, too, I'll try and get him." Ames voice was ragged from running.

"No, you go and free Emma. We manage." Chance sounded like he was climbing something.

"_I_ can uncuff her", Ilsa chimed in. "Ames taught me how to pick locks."

Her offer was met with awkward silence.

"Ames? You said I was making progress, didn't you?"

More silence, then: "Oh yes, Mrs. Pucci, you've made great progress." For a professional thief, Ames was a really bad liar.

Ilsa bit her lips. She hated it when they treated her like that. "If the blackmailer escapes our chances of finding him significantly decrease. In this labyrinth of streets out there you need every hand available."

"Just give Emma the tools, she'll do the rest", Chance finally decided.

His tone, this totally casual way of implying that no, she would not be able to pick the bloody lock, stung like hell.

… … …

Ames rounded the corner and halted. There had been movement at the end of the street. She gripped the gun tighter. Slowly she proceeded down the alley, seeking cover behind dumpsters and parked cars. Guerrero had taught her how to handle a weapon, how to aim and shoot, but this was different than firing practice on one of the warehouse's empty floors.

A lot different. Ames had never fired a gun at a living human being.

"We're advancing towards you, Ames. Try not to shoot one of us." Winston sounded like an old-fashioned locomotive.

"The street is ending in a cul-de-sac. I think he's caught in there", she whispered.

"Hold position. Don't do anything till we're with you." Guerrero's instructions were very clear and she didn't intend to disregard them...

...but there was this strange, soft clanging sound, barely audible.

What if the blackmailer had found a way out of the blind alley? Ilsa was right, if he escaped tonight they'd have a ton of trouble on their hands. Not only that finding him would be more difficult, there was also the chance he would release whatever incriminating material he had on Emma. Ames decided to follow her instincts and gradually moved towards the noise.

… … …

"This looks awkward. Are you sure you don't need help?" Ilsa made a tentative step towards Emma.

"Don't. Just don't. I'm doing perfectly well here." A severe cramp was forming along Emma's left arm and searing pain was shooting along her spine. Picking handcuffs behind the back was no easy task, but the hell she would let this Pucci woman know that. "And could you stop talking, too? I'm trying to concentrate here."

"Oh, I'm sorry, of course lock picking requires a quiet, undisturbed atmosphere, it should never be attempted under stressful circumstances…"

… … …

Ames tried another cautious step. The noise had died down. All she could hear now was her own breathing.

WHAM!

A cat darted forwards from underneath one of the dumpsters, knocking a couple of empty cans over. Ames was so on edge, she pulled the trigger.

Luckily for the cat, Ames didn't hit her. Not so luckily for Ames, the blackmailer saw her muzzle flash.

He fired immediately.

A bullet whizzed past her ear as she threw herself to the ground. Three more followed, close, very close.

Oddly enough, the only thought Ames later clearly remembered having was "Guerrero is going to kill me for that."

Then, finally, the muffled sound of reply fire.

Unfortunately too late – running footsteps passed Ames. The blackmailer had made it out of the cul-de-sac, seconds before the others arrived. Winston stayed by Ames' side, Chance and Guerrero followed the man in close pursuit.

Two minutes later, they were back.

Without the blackmailer.

"I'm sorry", Ames whispered.

… … …

It was close to dawn when they finally made it into the expensive hotel suite Ilsa had booked for them. Guerrero had collected shell casings from the back alley and was now trying to lift fingerprints from them, with the help of Winston.

Whether he wanted it or not.

"That's too much powder."

"It's perfect."

"I've been a cop for 25 years, I know how to lift fingerprints."

"Stay away from the evidence, butterfingers…"

Winston let out a frustrated grunt and looked around, hoping for some backup from Chance, but he had retreated to one of the bedrooms. Made sense. There was nothing he could do till Guerrero got a name to the prints and Emma was safe with Ames in the bedroom at the other end of the suite.

Winston decided to catch some sleep, too. He walked over to bedroom number three – Ilsa had been really generous – only to stop dead in his tracks on the threshold. There was Ilsa, sitting by the window, staring into the darkness, sipping at a drink.

"Everything okay, Mrs. Pucci?", Winston cautiously asked.

"What's so interesting about this Barnes woman?" She took a sip from her tumbler. "Or that Maria? What's so special about them?"

She didn't need to clarify about whose special interests she was inquiring here.

Winston shortly debated to make up something, to tell her that Chance wasn't attracted to Emma, that his interest in Maria stemmed from another time when he had been younger, but it was early in the morning after a very long day, everyone has limits and Winston had reached his.

"Maria and Emma can take care of themselves. They need assistance from time to time, yes, but they do know how to handle complicated situations on their own…"

Ilsa didn't need any further explanation. How many times had she needed Chance to rescue her?

She was just about to take a long swim in the sea of self-pity when another Chance-related thought entered her mind. A far more important one. As she slowly mulled it over, her heart started racing.

No. She couldn't let that happen.

… … …

Chance wasn't sleeping. The events of the day hadn't left him much time to think, but now, in the stillness of the last slow hours of the morning his mind was reeling.

He was thinking about alternatives and consequences when suddenly the door to the bedroom opened quietly and Ilsa walked in.

"I thought you might want something to drink." She sat down by his bedside.

Chance looked at her, looked at the glass of water in her hands…

"This is really kind of you." He accepted the tumbler. "I'm sorry, could you tell me the title of the book on the desk? I've been wondering about it, the cover looks familiar, but I was too lazy to get up."

As Ilsa got up to take a look at the book, he emptied the glass underneath the bed.

"It's a collection of works from Seneca", she told him as she got back.

"Thanks for checking, that was very…." He didn't finish the sentence. Satisfied smile on her face, Ilsa watched him drift off to sleep. Quietly, she left the room.

About five minutes later Guerrero showed up. "Are you pretending to sleep?", he asked his friend.

"Ilsa tried to slip me something. Not sure why, though."

"How did she do it?"

"Spiked drink."

Guerrero snorted. "Course you figured that out."

They both laughed.

"The only chance to get you is speed."

Chance blinked. Something in Guerrero's tone was off. "Hang on a sec, what do you…?"

But Guerrero had already produced a syringe and rammed it rather unceremoniously into his arm.

This time for real, the world turned dark for Chance.


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_The second bedroom of the hotel suite. Very early in the morning, before dawn. _

Emma was sleeping, too. For the first time in weeks she had sunk into deep, nightmare-free slumber. One could argue it was from sheer exhaustion – remember, among other things she had blown an operation, risked a pandemic, confessed murder, gotten handcuffed and blindfolded, all in one day – but there was more to it. As soon as she had finally lain down, an intense feeling of comfort and safety had covered her like a warm blanket.

She'd rather have bitten her tongue off than attribute that feeling to Christopher Chance's arrival, of course, but there she was, dreaming away comfortably, undisturbed, peacefully.

Ames, whose turn it was to keep guard, greatly envied her.

On the other hand, sleeping while on sentry duty was a no-no.

So, the one good thing about fearing what Guerrero might come up with as punishment for her blatant disobedience in the back alley was that sleeping was out of question and thus she at least wouldn't have trouble watching properly over Emma.

Guerrero hadn't spoken a word to her since the shootout with the blackmailer. Not that he usually talked that much with her, but tonight his silence on the way to the hotel had been unnerving. If at least his face had given away something! But no, nothing but the noncommittal mask he always wore.

Damn! She could live with being yelled at, even with being punished, but him saying nothing, that was torture.

Torture, hm?

Give it a little more thought, Ames, you'll figure it out…

A soft knock on the door. Ilsa slipped into the room. "I'd like a moment of privacy with Ms. Barnes", she said rather coldly. Ames stifled a sigh. She had almost forgotten that the boss was angry with her, too. Not so much because of her blunder in the alley but because she hadn't backed her up in the lock picking issue.

"You've really done a bang-up job tonight", she thought resignedly as she closed the door behind her.

Quietly Ilsa walked over to Emma's bedside. Her original plan had been to shake her awake and tell her right away what was on her mind, but now, looming over her sleeping form, she hesitated. That woman had been through a bloody hard time lately. Granted, she had brought it upon herself, but nevertheless… Ilsa could only guess what the photos had shown, but judging from Ames' facial expression and the extreme taciturnity of the men it wasn't difficult to come up with a scenario or two.

And now, on top of everything else, she would tell her to…

Ilsa decided for the sensitive approach and softly touched Emma's shoulder. Emma stirred, turned over and moaned...

… something …

… a name? …

Had she just let out a deep sigh or had she moaned a name?

A particular name…

Ilsa returned to her original plan and gave Emma's shoulder a forceful shove. "Ms. Barnes, wake up!"

Emma slowly blinked her way back into consciousness. Why was somebody waking her? She'd just had a beautiful dream. Details eluded her, but she did remember feeling _very _comfortable, like sleeping cat on fuzzy rug in front of warm stove comfortable.

Waking up and finding Ilsa violently shaking her was somewhat of a damper.

"What in the world…?"

Ilsa didn't waste time with polite niceties. "Guerrero managed to lift fingerprints from the shell casings he found in the back alley. He's running them now."

"And you wanted to bring me the good news...?" Emma seriously had no idea what this was about.

"Have you wasted a single thought on the question what happens once we know who your blackmailer is?"

Emma's initial reaction was opening her mouth to tell Ilsa in no uncertain terms that after the hell of the day she'd had she wasn't in the mood for playing twenty questions.

Then it dawned on her.

Damn, this Pucci woman had a point.

"Once we know who is behind this, there are exactly three options: Number one, you go to the police and report him. But that would also mean confessing what you have done. You would have to face a trial and most likely go to prison. Number two, you keep playing along, you continue giving him everything you want. This would not only mean bankruptcy but also immense physical harm." Ilsa took a deep breath. "Number three, your blackmailer dies a sudden, unexpected death."

Emma opened her mouth in protest.

"Which option, do you think, will Chance consider?"

Emma shook her head vigorously. "I'd never ask something like that of him!"

Ilsa sighed. "Of course you wouldn't. But I've seen the look on his face. He wants you safe. And that means in his mind neither confessing nor playing along are an option."

"He's not a killer anymore", Emma countered, but deep inside she knew what the other woman was talking about.

"To ensure your happiness, he would compromise his principles. I can't let that happen. I can't let you drag him down with you. Not after I've seen how much he suffers for the things he's already done. You took the law into your hands, so it's up to you to face the consequences." Ilsa closed her eyes briefly. She didn't like this Barnes woman, but this felt like stabbing her. "I sedated Chance. End this whole thing and confess before he wakes up and does something he'll regret forever."

To Emma it felt as if somebody had just pulled the rug from under her feet and she was free falling.

For a long moment, neither of them said a word. Finally, Ilsa got up.

"I trust you do the right thing." There was nothing more to say. She left Emma to her own devices.

Prison. This would mean prison. Emma pressed her hand against her mouth. Of course, there had always, from the first moment onwards, been the chance she would get caught, even without the blackmailer in the picture. But now suddenly all other possibilities had vanished into thin air.

Dawn was breaking outside, but to her, the world was pitch black.

At this very moment the door opened again. Not bothering to explain himself, completely ignoring Emma's devastated condition, Guerrero casually walked over to her bedside, pulled up a chair and sat down. "I've got a name to the prints I lifted off the shell casings. Ever heard of a man named Dean Robinson?"

"He's a colleague of mine, from the bureau." Emma was shocked, even more shocked than she had already been by Ilsa's visit. "He always seemed like a nice guy."

"Well, Chance is out cold for the next twelve to fourteen hours. That means we've got a little time on our hands to decide what to do with the _nice guy_."

Emma turned her face away. "I know, I've got three options: Confession, continuation or another murder."

If Guerrero was surprised at her precise reply, he didn't show it. "Good to hear you've already thought this through. You've got ten hours to make up your mind. I want this to be already over and done when Chance becomes coherent again. He'd do it for you, to save your ass from prison. Can't let that happen. Not with his conscience issues." He got up. "In case you're interested in my opinion: I suggest you finish what you've started. Clean up the mess you've caused and kill the guy." He paused. "Against a small fee I'd help you. I'll accept payment by installments."

"What if I don't make a decision in the next ten hours?"

Guerrero's face didn't change, neither did his voice. But the message was loud and clear nevertheless.

"I've got my priorities straight."

_**A/N: Thank you, jackattack, for leaving a comment, I can't stress how much feedback means to me!**_


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_The government-style, open-plan office, sometime past noon._

The elevator doors slid open, but Emma didn't move for a couple of seconds, till the doors started to slide shut again and she had no other choice but to exit unless she wanted to ride down to the ground floor again.

This was her workplace. These were her colleagues. That was her desk, her computer, her chair, her potted plant.

Not much longer.

All of it, not much longer.

Except the potted plant maybe. She'd probably be allowed to take it with her. But the rest?

Good bye.

She walked up to the mezzanine conference room section where her division chief's office was located.

"You're in late today, Agent Barnes", he greeted her, not overly upset, but expecting an explanation.

Emma swallowed nervously. A sudden feeling of dizziness overcame her and she had to grasp the back of the visitor's chair to keep her knees from buckling. "I'm sorry, sir", she croaked. Her voice was hoarse from crying too much.

The division chief watched her intensely. "Please take a seat, agent." He opened a file on his desk. "It has come to my notice that the operation at the airport ran a rather unorthodox course. Don't get me wrong, I'm well aware of the fact that unexpected complications can arise in a matter of seconds. Every operation contains elements that are beyond our control. But fellow agents have noticed a strange unrest and tenseness in you lately and seeing you now, late for work, hung over, I have to say I agree with them." He paused and his tone changed, became slightly less strict and more friendly. "If there's anything the Bureau can do, Emma…"

She took a deep breath. This was the moment.

"I'd like to officially apply for transfer to San Francisco, sir."

_… … …_

When Chance opened his eyes he was surprised to find himself staring at the ceiling of his own bedroom. Then he remembered the sudden, searing pain of a needle rammed into his upper arm and he wasn't so surprised anymore.

… … …

Downstairs in her office Ilsa glanced at her computer's clock and calculated that Chance should be waking up right about now. She was still weighing the pros and cons of checking on him – he'd surely want to know why he had slept so long, had probably already figured out that she must have slipped him something – when a soft signal sound alerted her to the arrival of a new e-mail.

Postponing the decision whether to talk to him or not, she accessed her account. A message from the Marshall Pucci Foundation's board of directors. In itself nothing unusual, she regularly received reports etc. from them, but there was something unsettling about the subject line she couldn't quite lay her hands on. Frowning, she opened the mail.

A second later, all her worries about a possible confrontation with Chance regarding sedative substances slipped to an unsuspecting ex-assassin vanished into thin air.

She stared at the computer screen and just couldn't believe it.

… … …

A soft rustling sound drew Chance's attention to the armchair by his bedroom window. There was Guerrero, reading a book, dozing Carmine by his side. "Don't move too fast", he told him. "That stuff's got nasty side effects."

"Care to explain?", Chance asked, settling back into his pillow.

Guerrero's smartphone landed on his chest with a thump. "Check out the latest news from Washington."

Chance did as he was told.

_Blue Ridge Mountain killer strikes again_

_The notorious serial killer that terrorized the northern part of the USA for two years before suddenly ceasing all activity six months ago apparently merely took a hiatus. FBI Agent Dean Robinson was found dead this morning in his car, his body displaying clear signs of the Blue Ridge Mountain killer's trademark torture methods. _

"FBI Agent Dean Robinson?", Chance asked.

"He had a very unhealthy taste for a certain type of photos…"

"Was that really necessary?"

Guerrero shrugged his shoulders. "You tell me."

For a long moment, silence reigned between them.

Finally Chance switched off the smartphone and threw it back to its owner. _Case closed_, said the gesture.

Guerrero tucked the phone away, then bent down to scratch Carmine behind the ears.

Chance knew his friend long enough to sense when something was off.

Granted, this hadn't worked so well when Guerrero had come to him with the syringe last night, but generally speaking…

"Spit it out", Chance said.

"There's something you might want to know…"

_**A/N: Thank you, another-all-nighter, for leaving a comment, it means a lot to me!**_


	8. all the good girls

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

**_~ all the good girls ~_**

_Saint Francis Memorial Hospital's ER, late in the evening. _

Could there be anything worse?

Anything worse than seeing your only child on a gurney, EMT on top of her, hectically administering CPR while a second one is pressing a respiratory mask to her face, desperately trying to prevent her from suffering brain damage through oxygen deprivation?

Could there be anything worse?

Anything worse than hearing a young doctor curse after one look at your 16 year old daughter's data, then calling for another adrenaline injection and then curse again?

Could there be anything worse?

Anything worse than feeling the hospital's floor vibrate from the pounding feet of people running to save your kid's life? Anything worse than smelling the chemical substances used in the intensive care unit, tasting them on your tongue, hoping with all your heart that one of them will somehow make things right again?

Probably only the ticking of the clock in such a situation, the immeasurably slow movement of time.

This is when you pray.

Or vow vengeance.

"It's a close call", said the doctor after what had seemed to her like an eternity of waiting and staring at corridor walls. "The next 24 hours will be decisive." He paused. "Those pills she took are not harmless in themselves. In combination with alcohol and in that dose… It's a fifty-fifty chance." He paused again, for the first time paying attention to the middle-aged woman's appearance. She looked devastated. Of course she did. Who wouldn't after finding out that your child just tried to take her life?

"Is there anyone we can call?", he asked cautiously.

The woman merely shook her short, graying curls. "There's no one. Her father died in action two years ago. Iraq. She's the only thing I've got left." Thin streams of tears ran down her sunken cheeks.

The doctor touched her shoulder in a gesture of sympathy and walked off.

Knees buckling underneath her, the woman sank into a chair. For a while, she did nothing but cry. Then her posture slowly changed. Her shoulders tensed and her hands clenched into fists.

"Somebody is going to pay for this", she hissed. "Somebody is going to pay."

48 hours later, the telephone of a certain warehouse in the Tenderloin began to ring.


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_48 hours after the events in the ER. The warehouse. Pre-noon. _

Guerrero's mobile signaled: _s/w ready for del_

_b there in 20, _he texted back, polished off Winston's sandwich and got ready to leave.

On his way to the elevator he passed by Ilsa's office. He glanced at her, walked on, one step, two steps, stopped.

Looked again.

She hadn't even noticed his presence, so concentratedly was she staring at the documents spread out on her desk. It wasn't that she was immersed in her work that had caught his attention, with her that was pretty much par for the course, it was the way she did it. The look on her face… kind of fierce.

Guerrero decided he could spare a moment. At this time of day traffic on Van Ness wasn't that bad; he'd make it to the meeting place in time despite a little delay.

Even when he directly intruded Ilsa's personal office space she didn't become aware of his presence. Granted, he was moving in silent mode, but nevertheless… months of working with them and watchfulness yet had to make it onto her top priority list. He decided to teach her a lesson and swiftly stepped behind her back, seizing the moment to take a look at the documents that had captured her attention so completely.

Hm.

Boss, you sure about that?

"Interesting notes", he growled right next to her ear. Predictably, Ilsa jumped and let out a shocked gasp. "Mr. Guerrero!" She hectically started gathering the papers on her desk. "I know that in your line of business knocking on doors isn't exactly common practice, but around here I suggest…"

Guerrero pressed his fingertips down on the notes, preventing her from removing them. "So you're planning a counterattack on the board's plans to kick you out?"

"You're reading my e-mails?"

He looked at her over the rim of his glasses with an _And this surprises you exactly why…?-_ expression. "This is quite a collection of dirt you've got on your fellow board members. You sure you want to go that way?"

"The Foundation is Marshall's legacy", she hissed with barely contained anger. "How dare they shut me out of it?"

"All they want is you coming back to London permanently. It's your involvement with us that's not sitting well with them."

"So you're suggesting I should cave in, be a good girl, go back to England and behave from now on?"

Her anger was reaching boiling point, but Guerrero's face remained totally unfazed. "This here…" he tapped at a credit card billing that practically screamed extramarital affair "…is not a game. Threatening and blackmailing people is a crime, Ilsa. It leaves a permanent mark on you. You don't commit it out of stubbornness, because you want more than you can handle."

Even years later Ilsa couldn't believe she actually did what she did next. Had somebody told her she'd do it, she'd recommended counseling.

As an inpatient.

Maybe it was the memory of Winston telling her that Maria and that Barnes woman could take care of themselves, together with the team's lack of confidence in her lock picking abilities in combination with the fact that the Barnes woman had been transferred to San Francisco and Chance had gone to see her this morning. All against the backdrop of the board trying to kick her out.

Or she was experiencing a vicious attack of temporary mental incapacity.

Well, whatever the reasons, she definitely did it. She hit Guerrero.

Yes, you read correctly.

She _hit_ Guerrero.

Directly in the face. Open handed.

A _slap_.

Guerrero's reaction was immediate. He grabbed her left wrist, twisted her arm behind her back, brought her face down to the desk and kept her there, his other hand in an iron grip around her neck. "One thing is for sure, Ilsa", he said. "Suicide, which you just almost committed, is not a solution."

Ilsa struggled against his grasp. He increased the pressure. Searing pain shot along her twisted limb.

"You'll hurt yourself."

"I'm not going to back down", she hissed through clenched teeth. Knowing full well that she was risking a broken arm, she tried to jerk upright, aiming for a headbutt against Guerrero's chin. She didn't get far, of course, "iron grip" with Guerrero _means_ iron grip. Nevertheless her attempt was not completely in vain. It got Guerrero thinking. Six months ago she probably wouldn't even have considered fighting back. Now she was striving against all odds and showing signs of having learned something after all.

"If that's what you want, Ilsa…" He increased the pressure on her arm to near damage point and waited for her to protest. When none came, he softly continued: "…if that's what you really want, I've got your back."

At this very moment, the telephone on her desk began to ring.

… … …

_48 hours after the events in the ER. A row house outside San Francisco. Pre-noon. _

Emma Barnes opened the door of her new home even before Chance had made it up the porch steps. "Doorbell isn't working yet."

Inside, the house was pretty much a construction site: Torn open floors, broken down walls, cables dangling from the ceiling, gray dust everywhere.

"Quite a lot to do", Chance commented, looking around.

"Manageable with a little assistance from a friend." Emma smiled. She looked dazzling in a short, figure-hugging summer dress. Obviously not an outfit she was planning to do any active renovating in.

"You brought that upon yourself." Chance wasn't smiling.

"Do I sense some subtext here?" She produced cherry juice and soda from a cooling box, fixed a drink and offered Chance another one with a gesture. He declined.

Heavens, what had gotten into him?

His oddly sober behavior was starting to get to her. "Are you angry with me?"

"Guerrero watched the surveillance tape that shows you killing the Blue Ridge Mountain killer. I know his account of what happened, now I'd like to hear your version."

Emma shook her head in a clear gesture of resistance. "I asked for transfer to turn a fresh leaf. I don't want to think about this mess anymore. It's over and done."

Chance grabbed her arm to prevent her from stomping off. "This needs to be talked about."

"Leave me alone!", she snapped and pulled back vehemently. The drink in her hand spilt over, splashed and left several dark red stains on his shirt.

Great. It looked like he had just cut someone's throat, there was no way he could go outside in it. Emma got him an oversized T-shirt she used as a nightgown.

She didn't turn around, he didn't turn around. So he removed his shirt in front of her and she kept staring at him unabashedly.

Damn, it would be so easy now to make a playful comment and go back to the light banter that had initially characterized their relationship.

But in the light of what Guerrero had told him?

Not an option, at least not till she had explained herself.

He put on the T-shirt. Just then his mobile signaled. A text message from Winston, calling him back to the office. They had a new client.

_**A/N: Thank you, another-all-nighter, for leaving another comment! This fic, especially the Ilsa angle, was inspired by chapter 23 et seq. of tree979's wonderful slash fic "Comfort". Thank you for letting me play with your idea!**_


	10. Chapter 10

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_The warehouse. Later the same day._

An accident on one of the city's arterial roads delayed Chance's arrival at the office significantly. Around the time he should have normally made it to the office, his mobile started signaling in rapid succession – texts, incoming calls, all from the same, well-known number. With the clients present, Ilsa apparently was in boss mode.

Of course Chance could have simply picked up the phone or send a short text, explaining his absence.

Nah…

At the office he stepped into the elevator the same time as Ames. "I'm a bit late", she said sheepishly. "Alejandro and I've just been to the bank. We've bought a house."

"Don't worry, I don't think Ilsa will be mad at you."

Ames' fine-tuned ears immediately picked up the way he stressed the word "you". She was just about to make further inquiries when her mobile signaled. A message from Guerrero:

_stay away from office. clients must not see u_

"Oh damn, what shall I do now? With the glass walls in the conference room they'll see me in the elevator." She looked slightly panicky.

Chance stifled a sigh. After her mistake in the back alley in Washington she was convinced Guerrero was pissed off with her. She hated that he was behaving coldly towards her and was so fiercely determined not to aggravate their relationship further that she turned into jumpy klutz as soon as she got into a fifty feet radius of him.

What she didn't realize was that Guerrero wasn't punishing her, he was teaching her.

Damn, she looked on edge. He needed to talk to Guerrero about his methods.

Hm, although… the mere idea of convincing him to give Ames some kind of pep-talk was kind of outlandish…

"Don't worry. I'll distract them", he told her, trying to calm her at least a little. Ilsa would be angry, but for the sake of Ames' peace of mind and the success of the new job…

Ah, cut the crap.

If he was honest with himself, just thinking about pulling this stunt off greatly appealed to his mischievous side. Eyes sparkling with waggishness, he removed his shirt for the second time that day.

Winston was sitting with his back to the elevator, so when he saw the expression on Ilsa's face he first didn't understand why it was going through a sudden rapid succession of disbelief, shock, humiliation, annoyance and disbelief again. He also didn't understand why the mother of their new client suddenly stopped sniveling and their new client herself, a sixteen year old girl, asked with thinly veiled excitement: "Is _that_ my bodyguard?" while the father looked slightly confused. Then he turned around.

Oh no.

"Damn, it is hot today." Chance entered the conference room, stopped and looked around as if he had only just noticed the half dozen people sitting around the table.

"Oh."

He wrinkled his forehead in a puppy face expression directed at Ilsa and put the shirt back on.

"Sorry."

Nobody except Guerrero noticed the elevator riding downstairs seemingly on its own.

Introductions were quickly made and Winston informed him about what the Burkes had told them so far: Three weeks ago somebody started hassling their daughter Chastity in rapidly more aggressive growing fashion: At first things started disappearing – pens, books, a bag… Her school library account was deleted. Then somebody manipulated her locker so she couldn't open it anymore. Three days in a row. A week ago a dark red paint bomb was thrown against her bedroom window and when she wanted to go to school the day after she discovered that all of her car's tires were flat.

"And yesterday…" The mother, an attractive woman in her mid-forties whose blond hair and blue eyes the daughter had inherited, started crying again. "Someone… killed… Fluffy…"

The daughter's eyes had pretty much been glued to Chance ever since he had walked in, but at the mentioning of her murdered cat they lost focus and became moist. "I got her for my seventh birthday", she whispered.

"Somebody…" The father choked. "…nailed her on our backdoor." He looked just as shaken as his wife and kid. Winston hated seeing him like that. He probably felt not only deeply worried but also humiliated because he couldn't protect his family properly. The impression of utter helplessness was one of the biggest problems in stalker cases. It often hurt more and had a longer lasting effect than anything else the stalker did. Winston felt his anger rise. Nobody should be forced into feeling like that.

"We went to the police, but they didn't even look at the evidence", the father continued. "We filed a report and that was it. Budget cuts… Too many _real_ crimes… Are you going to look at the evidence?"

"It is our policy to examine everything as thoroughly as possible", Winston assured him, switching into experienced cop mode. "And believe me, after 25 years on the force, there's not much I miss."

"See", the father told the mother. "It was a good thing we brought her." He reached for the holdall he had carried with him and pulled out a black plastic bag.

"I trust that you treat her remains with the same respect you'd treat a human's", the Mrs. Burke sniveled. Chastity started sobbing. Her mother hugged her tightly. Winston accepted the bag and quickly carried it out of sight.

"Our usual MO is to expose our client to the public and make him look vulnerable so the threat feels safe, comes forward and attacks", Chance explained. "That's when we strike. Tomorrow at school your daughter won't be alone. We'll be with her, take a good look at everyone and see what happens. For tonight we'll stay with you at your house to keep you safe. "

When Winston came back from stashing the cat's cadaver away, he and Guerrero went to accompany the family back to their home. Chance stayed behind with Ilsa.

"That was highly unprofessional", she snapped the second the elevator's door had slid shut behind the family.

"Ames was hiding in the elevator. I needed to divert their attention."

"That's not what I'm talking about!"

Now Chance was surprised. He raised his eyebrows in a questioning expression.

"You were late!"

"There was an accident on…"

"There were traces of dust on your chest. Grainy, gray dust like that develops when concrete gets pulverized, for example during renovations. Ms. Barnes is currently renovating her home, isn't she? Did you need to divert her attention, too?"

"Ilsa, I…"

"And besides that, you put the wrong shirt back on, that's not the one you left in this morning. Now, I really don't care at all, not the slightest, what you're doing in your free time, but being late when a client needs help because you're caught up in some sort of fling is totally intolerable. I really expected more of you!"

And off she stomped…

Chance found himself longing for the time when the only yelling matches he had had were with Winston about Guerrero. At least the word "fling" had never been in them.

_**A/N: Thank you for your comment, another-all-nighter, it's really kind that you're taking the time! **_


	11. Chapter 11

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_24 hours later. A school corridor sometime around noon, empty except for a group of official looking people, guided along by a rather nervous looking principal._

"I have to say, your visit came quite unexpectedly, superintendent." The principal hoped his shirt didn't show any sweat stains. Superintendent Cramer himself! Oh, he was so screwed.

"Well, parents have been complaining… one chemistry class in particular was mentioned again and again. Lack of discipline, teacher can't assert himself… That's the class we'd like to visit first."

The principal could literally feel his shirt soak through. "That's Mr. Fontainebleu's class you're talking about. He's chaperoning a school trip this week and his substitute took over only just today."

Fontainebleus's _newest_ substitute, he silently added. That class with those brats straight from hell had sent two substitute teachers running so far. "As you of course know, it does take time to gain student's acceptance…"

"Good teachers win their students' hearts by storm with their love for the subject."

Oh boy, when had that man last actually stood in front of a class and tried to teach the beasts something? They had arrived at the chemistry classroom now. The principal expected a madhouse. To his great surprise no sounds of turmoil were coming through the door. He knocked curtly, opened it and was met with... silence!

Complete, utter silence.

It was unbelievable, all students, even the jocks from the back row were sitting at their respective tables, back straight, pen in hand, face turned towards the teacher.

_The teacher. _

He was surprisingly short in build and looked rather gaunt, especially his face. The principal felt reminded of a rat or a ferret, but there was something about him, a certain air he couldn't quite pinpoint, that invoked images of animals far more dangerous.

But the students were silent, so what?

"We were just about to prepare an experiment on fossil fuels. These are all young drivers here, figured it might be interesting for them to determine which is the cleanest burning", Guerrero explained to the unexpected visitors. "Chastity, could you tell us the difference between alkenes and alkanes?"

Chastity Burke's face was one big question mark. "Alkenes are… uh-oh…"

"According to Mr. Fontainebleu's notes you talked about them as recently as last week", Guerrero pointed out.

At this very moment, the new girl that had, much to Chastity's chagrin, been seated right next to her, slightly shifted her hand and revealed a piece of paper with keywords.

"Alkenes are much more reactive than alkanes because alkenes are saturated", Chastity slowly began. The new girl kicked her underneath the table. "_Un_saturated, I mean." Her eyes darted to the piece of paper again. "An alkene can't…" another kick "…CAN be distinguished from an alkane by shaking the hydro… hydro…" Damn, what was the word? The girl scribbled it down in larger letters. Thank God Gordon Peters was sitting in front of her, so the teacher and the people from the school board couldn't see what she was doing. "…the hydrocarbon with bromine water."

Guerrero nodded thoughtfully. Very interesting answer.

A couple of minutes later the superintendent, his entourage and the principal left again. "Is it just me or did the students look a bit scared?", one of the superintendent's assistant remarked.

"Concentrated", the principal quickly corrected him. "They looked concentrated."

… … …

_The warehouse at the same time. _

"Dude, no one would believe you in any kind of teaching role", Guerrero had said as they had layed out the plan for today's operation, as per usual not mincing words.

"They need a chemistry teacher, Winston", Chance had tried to calm the waves. "Guerrero's knowledge in that field is quite expansive."

Naturally, Winston was annoyed nevertheless: "So if surveillance from the van isn't necessary, Ames is posing as a new student and Chance as a janitor, what does that leave for me to do?

At that, an evil grin had started spreading across Guerrero's face. "I suggest you fulfill your promise to Mr. Burke and take a look at the evidence, CSI Winston. "

So now Winston was standing in the office's kitchen with a field surgery kit borrowed from Guerrero and doing exactly that: Looking at the evidence, aka the Burke's untimely deceased cat Fluffy.

Or what was left of it.

The carcass was in pretty bad shape, a mess of sandy colored fur, gaping wounds and curdled blood. A tiny microchip, the size of a grain of rice, stuck out of one of the wounds. Winston sighed and retrieved it with a pair of pincers. The animal must have meant a lot to the Burkes if they had gone through the trouble of chipping it. To be honest, he had no idea what to do with the cadaver. But he had made a promise. Maybe he could somehow establish if the nailing had happened postmortem? It could be a scrap of comfort for the Burkes.

He cautiously turned the cadaver around. Ugh, it was cut open so deeply, the intestines were clearly visible.

Hang on a sec.

Winston put on his glasses.

Wasn't that…?

… … …

_Back in the school. Recess. _

Janitors can go practically everywhere without raising suspicion. Most people don't even realize they're there. They just look right through them. No surprise janitor was one of the roles Chance used most back when he was called Junior, and even in his new life he played the part quite often.

The first thing Chance had done after getting hold of the building's skeleton key was a quick check of the school's less frequently used rooms, especially card rooms and storage rooms, hoping to find the stalker's hoard. All the stuff that had been stolen from Chastity must have gone somewhere and with the security checks at the school entrances and exits, the stalker probably wouldn't have wanted to take the risk to get caught with it, especially not with the bag containing Chastity's cheerleader uniform.

What Chance actually found, however, was a place of retreat. Judging from the look of the corner behind the oversized map of the United States, this spot was regularly visited: It was furnished with pillows, a lamp, books…. He had seen something like that before, during a case, years ago. A young boy had been bullied by his classmates and he had created a safe haven for himself right inside the school.

Out of curiosity and maybe on a hunch, Chance came back every hour, hoping to meet the occupant. She showed up during recess.

"Wouldn't it be easier to read in the library?", he asked, careful not to scare her. She looked at him with pale blue eyes behind huge glasses. Her skin was unnaturally white with lots of zits, her choice of clothes was not really odd but slightly off the mark, her hair was dull and dry.

Yes, she looked like a bullying victim.

"Or the cafeteria? I've heard it's Cookie Thursday."

She shook her head. "Don't feel like eating. React allergic on practically everything anyway – dairy goods, pollen, furry pets… Just name it and I have a rash break out."

"And all the other people…"

"Yeah, all the other people…"

This was one of the many moments when Chance's good looks really came in handy. People tend to trust good-looking people more than scruffy ones and the girl was no exception. His smile, his totally non-threatening body language put her at ease and she relaxed a little. Nevertheless there was an almost palpable air of sadness surrounding her. Chance looked around. The space behind the map was equipped quite well. Amazing that no one had discovered her so far. "Who is usually sitting on the other cushion? Are you waiting for someone?"

The girl shook her head. "Sophie isn't coming. She's in hospital." Tears slowly started running down her face.

Chance rummaged in his pocket and brought out a handkerchief. "Would you like to tell me what happened?"

The girl choked on her sobs. "She tried to kill herself."

He sat with her for more than half an hour. She cried her heart out, told him everything about Sophie, the sad story how her father died in Iraq, how she and her mother were barely making ends meet, how she was the only real friend she'd ever had…

The one thing she didn't tell him, however, was why Sophie had tried to kill herself.

… … …

_After recess. The school corridor, now populated with students. _

"There are people you want to be with and people you don't want to be with", Chastity told Ames. She had obviously decided to initiate her into the finer workings of the school's social stratums, as a way of saying thank you for her help during chemistry class. "Some people so totally ruin your reputation." Her entourage, a group of about half a dozen girls Ames found really hard to tell apart, agreed in unison.

"Well said, Chastity", a girl with shoulder length dark brown hair they just happened to pass by, said.

"You've got a problem, Eve?", Chastity snarled.

Eve, who was in the process of removing the blouse she was wearing above her T-shirt (the temperatures had risen significantly since morning), didn't even bother to look at her. "All I'm saying is that I completely agree with you." She stuffed her blouse into her locker. "There are people you want to be with and you don't want to be with."

The last sentence was clearly directed at Ames.

"And I bet Kelly and Sophie would totally agree with you, too."

"Prove that I played that little joke on Kelly and we can talk again."

"Proof or no proof, you mixed real milk into her lactose free shake. She had to be taken to hospital with an anaphylactic shock, one day before she was supposed to go out with Gordon Peters." Eve was facing Chastity directly now. "And I don't even want to know what you did to Sophie for her to react like that!"

Chastity's face paled a little, but really only a little. "Sophie brought all that upon herself."

As Eve walked off, Ames' mobile phone signaled. _Good job reading up on hydrocarbons. G. _

Praise from Guerrero!

Normally Ames would have jumped up and down with excitement and vowed never to delete that message. But at this very moment, her happiness was drowned out by a long lost or, more correctly, long thrust aside, memory. She had heard the phrase "There are people you want to be with and people you don't want to be with" before.

Spoken by her own voice.

_**A/N: Thank you, Dreaming Sio, for your fast help! another-all-nighter: It makes me incredibly happy to hear that people enjoy what I write!**_


	12. Chapter 12

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_Friday evening. Saint Francis Memorial Hospital. _

"I _can_ do that", Ilsa had insisted.

Chance hadn't looked convinced. "Winston is still busy with the cat's autopsy results and we'll be at the school's dance night. You'd be without backup."

"I'm going to question a heartbroken mother and a bedridden teenager, pretending to be a social worker. How terribly hard can that be?"

"At least it won't be terribly dangerous", Guerrero had agreed.

In the end Guerrero and Ames (she was definitely not going to risk Ilsa's wrath again) had outvoted Chance (who really regretted that Winston wasn't present, he'd surely have vetoed the plan).

So now Ilsa was knocking on a hospital door, ready to flash a fake ID.

A faint voice called her in.

To Ilsa's great surprise, Sophie was alone. What a saddening sight: The girl all on her own in an utterly silent room, no TV on, no mp3 player… She was just staring off into the distance.

Ilsa introduced herself as Ilsa P…Palmer… (damn! She almost said her real name!) and explained that in cases of suicide attempts social services routinely got involved. She also apologized for the unorthodoxly late hour of the visit and mentioned case overload. Guerrero had walked her through that back story several times to make sure she got everything right. An unnecessary precaution, as it turned out: Sophie was barely listening.

"Is it okay if I talk to you without your mother being present?", Ilsa asked cautiously. She really hoped so – it would make things a lot easier.

At the mentioning of her mother, tears welled up in the girl's eyes.

"She's mad at me", she whispered.

"I'm sure she's relieved you're alive, not mad." Ilsa took Sophie's hand. The poor thing looked terrible, grayish-pale, ten years older than she actually was. Guerrero had hacked into her medical report. The pills she had taken had damaged her lungs. The doctors still weren't sure how permanently.

"I did a terrible thing."

Ilsa realized she wasn't talking about the suicide attempt. On the one hand that was great – she had the feeling she was about to find out why the girl had tried to take her life. On the other hand she had the feeling she'd be hearing something no one wants to hear and suddenly her stomach flipped. Did she really have the guts for all of this?

Well, Sophie was going to talk now, whether she wanted it or not.

… … …

_The high school. Same time. _

To his great chagrin the first thing that had greeted Ian Fontainebleu when he came back from the school trip was his blinking answering machine and the principal's voice, informing him that they were one man short for chaperoning at tonight's school dance.

Oh great, back to hell immediately. He had counted on having at least the weekend to get mentally ready for taking up work again.

Guerrero was surprised to see Fontainebleu's name on the list of chaperoning teachers.

_No_, he didn't cause Mr. Garibaldi, the Spanish teacher, to slip in the school corridor and sprain an ankle. Fontainebleu's appearance at the school dance really was a coincidence. It was NOT Guerrero's doing.

Doesn't mean he didn't seize the opportunity.

"I've substituted in one of your chemistry classes", Guerrero introduced himself.

"And you survived it?" Fontainebleu's voice was tired. He looked bad; nervous and tense.

"There's this girl, Chastity Burke. You've been giving her straight A's for the past six months. I asked her an easy question about hydrocarbons and she failed miserably. Care to explain?"

Fontainebleu's face took on the expression of a hunted down animal. "That's… She's… She probably just…"

Then he broke down.

His knees started to buckle, he started shaking all over… Guerrero barely managed to catch him and lead him to a chair. A grown man, collapsing like that… What in the world had that girl done to him?

A stiff drink later he knew.

"Ames?" Retreated to a quiet corner, he first informed Chance, then contacted her via earpiece. "Remember the suggestion you made? Go ahead with it."

… … …

_Saint Francis Memorial. _

"My mom can't work fulltime, her nerves…. Ever since Dad died she's been having these panic attacks, so we pretty much live on his pension alone… not much to go with…" Tears were streaming down Sophie's face and she was breathing raggedly. Ilsa worried what all this crying would do to her lungs.

"I don't know what got into me, but one day I… I took… I took money out of a boy's wallet. It was so easy, he had it in his jacket and the jacket was just lying there… I know it was wrong, but I wanted… it's so ridiculous, but I wanted a certain pair of shoes…"

Oh my. She had stolen from her peers. What a secret. But worth a suicide?

"We were going through a rough time back then… mom was having more and more attacks and I… I consoled myself with stuff... books, cinema, DVDs… "

Ilsa was listening intensely. She had the growing feeling that there was more to come.

"One day Chastity caught me."

There it was.

"She told me she'd go to the principal if I didn't share my profit with her. It would have soiled my father's name! I couldn't let that happen! So I carried on…"

Ilsa took a deep breath, trying to control the enormous wave of anger that was washing over her.

And it was going to get worse.

… … …

_The high school. _

Chastity and Ames had sneaked out of the building for a cigarette.

"Nothing like a smoke in the cool night air", Chastity smiled and took a deep puff.

"Why did you do that milk thing?", Ames asked, trying not to inhale. It had taken her years to get rid of her smoking habit, she really didn't want to start all over again. "Were you after this boy, Gordon?"

Chastity burst out laughing. "Me and Gordon? Nah!"

"Then why did you do it?"

"Because I could!" Chastity couldn't stop laughing. "Kelly is such a hopeless little thing. A natural born victim. I believe everybody has a god given place in this world. Some are winners, some are losers. It's enormous fun to remind her of that elemental order every now and then."

"Aren't you worried she might strike back one day?"

"Don't be ridiculous, what should she do?" Chastity lit a new cigarette. If she kept on smoking like that her skin would look like crocodile leather ten years from now.

"You poke somebody long enough, he goes off the rail…", Ames said, then wheeled around. "Did you hear that?"

"Don't know what you're talking about."

"There was a noise." Ames slowly walked off into the darkness.

"Hey, don't leave me here!"

Ames stepped away from the faint light that was coming from the illuminated gym hall. To Chastity it had to look now as if she'd just disappeared.

"That isn't funny!"

Ames made loud gasp/shrieking sounds and broke a few branches from a nearby bush, as if someone was attacking her.

Predictably, instead of checking on her, Chastity dashed into the building.

Suddenly the deserted, dimly lit corridors of the gym hall didn't look like a good opportunity to break the rules anymore. They looked dangerous, as if something horribly could be lurking in every shadowy corner.

Chastity was running. Where the hell was her bodyguard? Wasn't he supposed to watch over her? Granted, she had sneaked away with that new girl, but shouldn't he have managed to keep track on her nevertheless? Her footsteps echoed in the empty hallways. She needed to make it back to the gym hall. There she'd be safe. Only a few more passages!

The lights went out.

In the darkness Chastity lost her footing and stumbled. A split second later she clearly heard a door behind her open and close again, then footsteps.

Oh God, that wasn't happening.

She got up, started running again, rounded the corner – and directly crashed into someone. Strong arms took hold of her. In total panic, Chastity started screaming and struggling.

"There you are!"

The lights went back on and Chastity recognized her bodyguard, for whatever reason grinning.

… … …

_Saint Francis Memorial._

"After a couple of weeks, Chastity wasn't content anymore with her share of the profits. She told me to make a certain amount of money each week… so I had to steal more… I started going after my friends… In the end I stole from Kelly!"

Sophie sobbed heartbreakingly.

"I just couldn't bear it anymore!"

Ilsa embraced her tightly. "No matter what you did, I'm sure your mother will forgive you."

"Then why isn't she here tonight? Ever since I told her yesterday she's been acting strange and now she isn't here… She's mad at me."

… … …

_The high school._

Chastity didn't have much time to ponder the subject of her grinning bodyguard. He suddenly pressed his hand against his ear and looked as if he was listening really carefully. His face turned grave, his whole behavior alert. "I got it, Ilsa", he said, and then: "Guerrero, did you copy that?"

What Chastity couldn't hear was Guerrero's answer: "Don't worry, I'm on it."

Chance took Chastity and moved her to a safer place.

… … …

"You don't want to do that, believe me." Guerrero's trained eye had spotted the bulge in the middle-aged woman's jacket immediately. He guessed it was one of her late husband's weapons. Military people often had weapons at home, too. "You're Sophie's mother, right?"

"Who are you?" She was shaking terribly.

"Someone who knows what happened."

"That beast almost killed my daughter."

Guerrero shook his head. "No, your daughter almost killed your daughter. She made a ton of bad decisions. Chastity didn't help, but that doesn't mean she's solely responsible."

He held out his hand.

"She needs you to get out of this mess. That's what you should be doing right now. Sorting things out with her. Not playing avenging angel and making the whole thing even worse."

The woman started crying helplessly.

Guerrero took the gun from her and walked off.

… … …

"So where does this leave us?", Chance asked after listening to Guerrero's report via earphone. "Somebody started hassling Chastity three weeks ago. Can't be Sophie's mother, she only found out about the whole mess yesterday. Can't be the teacher, he was on a school trip all of last week. Can't be Kelly, she reacts allergic on cats."

Chance caught the faint sound of Guerrero's mobile signaling.

"Just got a message from Emma."

"Emma is involved in this?"

"Relax, dude. Just asked her to do a tiny background check for us…. Kelly withdrew money from her bank account three weeks ago. Exactly one dollar less than the amount she was allowed to withdraw without her parents' consent."

"So she was trying to keep it a secret…" Chance sighed. Damn. He liked Kelly. "Sounds like she paid someone…"

"And I have just an idea who that might be…" Winston didn't sound happy, too. All those young girls… What was wrong with the world?

_**A/N: Big thank you to veniceit and Dreamin Sio, you really helped to build this chapter! Another-all-nighter: I'm sorry, the Fluffy explanation had to wait till next chapter... **_


	13. Chapter 13

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_Saturday morning. The office. Conference room. _

The elevator signaled and the Burke family trooped in. Ilsa awaited them and led them to the conference room where Winston was already waiting. Ilsa seated them at the other end of the table before joining Winston's side. Chastity didn't look the slightest bit worried.

Till Ames walked in, that is.

Winston couldn't hide a grin as Chastity's self-confidence visibly started to crumble, realizing that Ames must have told them about Kelly.

"Clients are not always honest with us", Winston began, putting on his glasses and opening the case file. "That's why we've made it a habit to run thorough background checks not only on eventual threats but also on them."

The Burke parents weren't worried at all by that announcement. _We've got nothing to hide _said their faces.

Chastity looked green.

_What else did they find?_ said her face.

"In almost seven years of business we've encountered a lot, but I have to say, you've set new standards." Winston lowered his glasses a little so he could look Chastity directly in the eyes. She started squirming.

"I don't understand." The father was confused.

The mother, a little more informed about her daughter's life (she and a couple of other mothers had the same hairdresser) was alarmed. Every now and then someone had hinted at something… she hadn't paid much attention, children are archenemies one day and best friends the next … people tend to exaggerate… her daughter was surely not worse than anyone else's… but the look on this Winston's face, it didn't bode well…

"What is this about, Chastity?"

"Your daughter committed serious bullying against a fellow student, Kelly Walker."

"I just played a joke or two on her, nothing more! No cyber bullying, I swear!", Chastity hectically defended herself. "I've seen on CSI that that is illegal! They arrested a whole bunch of girls because they'd put stuff on the internet – I've put nothing about Kelly out there!"

"So I gather this Kelly started harassing our daughter because she bullied her?" The father tried to gain control over the situation. "In this case we won't report her to the police. If she promises she won't do it again, Chastity will promise to leave her alone. We'll talk to the parents."

"But she killed Fluffy!", mother and daughter almost simultaneously protested.

"Bullying, cyber or otherwise, is a serious offense", the father replied through clenched teeth. "If they complain about Kelly and this results in a lawsuit war, we risk bankruptcy."

"Speaking of serious offenses…" Winston continued before this could turn into a full-blown family quarrel. "Your daughter received marvelous grades in Chemistry."

"It's her favorite subject", the mother happily confirmed, glad to get away from the dreadful topic of her daughter hurting another person. She didn't agree at all with her husband's suggestion to let the stalker go unpunished. Whatever Chastity had done to this Kelly, it surely didn't justify the death of an innocent pet.

"She blackmailed her Chemistry teacher into giving her those marvelous grades", Winston informed her.

Chastity sunk lower and lower into her seat.

The father let out a sharp hiss.

"What did he do?"

"I suggest you concentrate on what your daughter did", Ilsa told him rather forthrightly.

"For we are far from over and done…" Winston flipped a page in the case file, more for dramatic effect than necessity. "A couple of months ago Chastity caught a fellow student stealing. Instead of reporting her she demanded a share of the profits. When those weren't high enough, your daughter forced her to bring in a fixed amount, no matter what. In the end the girl attempted suicide."

For a long time, silence reigned.

Chastity tried to speak up once, but a single look from her father silenced her even before she had managed to utter a word. Mrs. Burke was crying. Ilsa decided not to hand her a handkerchief. Children like that don't grow on trees – someone must have taught her the thing about the god given places.

"What can we do to keep this matter quiet?", the father finally asked. Winston could almost see him reaching for his checkbook.

"You and your daughter move away from here. Completely away. Into another state, preferably on the other side of the continent." He directly addressed Chastity now. "No internet for half a year, no mobile, no way to stay in contact with your old friends. You're going to be the new girl at a new school and for half a year the total amount of what the clothes you wear to school, including shoes, cost, may not exceed 80 dollars."

This last rule had been a suggestion by Ames.

At hearing Winston's terms, all humility on Chastity's side vanished into thin air. "You're kidding me! 80 dollars? Moving? You've lost your mind, I'm not…"

"You can prove all this, can't you?", Mr. Burke quietly said to Winston. His wife was sobbing loudly now.

"Every single aspect. And shouldn't you adhere to the rules we set…"

"We're going to move", the father firmly said. As he turned to his daughter his face was a stony mask. "I suggest you learn how to sew."

Chastity started crying. Not just crying. Bawling.

"One more thing…" Winston flipped another page.

Both parents looked painfully desperate now. What more could there come?

"I suggest you take your cat with you." Winston reached downwards, pulled up a cat transport box, placed it on the table, opened its door and out walked…

"Fluffy!"

Purring, it strode over to its totally confused owners.

"The cat that was nailed to your backdoor was a male cat, put down at a vet's a couple of days ago because of cancer", Winston explained. "The stalker stole the carcass and mauled it so you wouldn't take too close a look at it. All you saw was the sandy colored fur and no Fluffy in sight. You drew the logical conclusion that the corpse must be Fluffy's. It took some legwork, but we found her at a shelter."

There was nothing more to be said. The Burkes got up to leave, still under shock. They had yet to grasp that thanks to their daughter, they would have to start completely new. Unless they wanted to risk several law suits.

The team was quite confident they weren't risk-taking people.

Shortly before he stepped into the elevator to join his family, Mr. Burke turned around once more: "So who's the stalker now?"

"Does it matter?", Winston replied. The elevator doors slid shut.

While Winston saw the clients off, Ilsa walked over to her private office. Ames remained behind in the conference room.

The past few days had given her a lot to think about.

After a long while of just sitting and doing nothing, she pulled out her smartphone and wrote a message to Guerrero: _Could you track someone for me?_

… … …

_Same time. A diner. _

"What were you thinking?", Chance asked Kelly. "You seem like a clever girl. All those books you've read. Fantastic grades… And then you go ahead and hire someone to nail a cat on a door? I don't get it."

Thick tears were rolling down Kelly's face. "It was supposed to be a onetime only thing. I even planned to give Chastity the stolen stuff back… I thought I'd just drop it at her doorstep or something…"

"But?" Chance just sat there, not comforting her in any way, shape or form. Hiring somebody to do one's dirty work, that was a serious issue.

"It totally spun out of control. I was just so angry. And seeing Chastity get scared… it felt so good, seeing her finally pay at least a little for all that she's done to me… and if I had known what she did to Sophie…." Her eyes were pleading for some sort of forgiveness.

Chance wasn't falling for it.

"You're going to do charity work after school", he told her. "Three times a week. For half a year."

"And what if I don't?" Behind the tears, a belligerent spark had started glowing.

She could read the answer on his adamant face.

… … …

When Ilsa walked into her office, she noticed an envelope on her desk with a note in Guerrero's handwriting attached.

_Still sure about this?_ it said.

Just like Ames, she sat for a long time doing nothing but thinking before finally making a decision.

… … …

_Same time. A public park. _

"What gave me away?" Eve eyed the man who surely wasn't a Chemistry teacher watchfully.

"We retrieved a microchip from the dead cat's carcass. It led us to its owners who in turn led us to the vet where the cat was put down … where you happen to work part time after school. Together with the fact that you've got access to the school's library server because you're in the library team and that your father painted the wall of your garage in exactly the same shade as the paint in the paint bomb…and there's the long scratch on your arm that a colleague of mine noticed when you removed your blouse in school. I guess Fluffy didn't like the idea of being kidnapped..."

"I merely asked Kelly to cover my expenses. I didn't make a dime of profit in it", Eve defended herself.

"You go down that road any further, five years from now you'll kill the real cat. For a small fee. Ten years from now you'll kill people. In their sleep. For a living."

"I'd never do that!", she protested vehemently. "You're crazy! _Killing_ people? For heaven's sake, I messed a little with Chastity's head, nothing more!"

"This is no game." With one swift motion Guerrero produced a mother-of-pearl handle knife and slammed it into the picnic table they were sitting at, right in the center of the tiny space between her thumb and her left index finger. "Don't cross my paths again."

Wordlessly, he got up. As he walked off, his mobile signaled.

_Yes_ he texted back.


	14. Chapter 14

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_A couple of days later. Early evening. Emma Barnes' house. _

Emma almost failed to hear the knock on the door, she was too busy tearing down the wall between kitchen and living-room with the help of a sledge hammer. Chance, however, was persistent and so, between two blows, she perceived the faint tock-tock after all.

"So you've decided to continue with the renovation yourself?", he asked, taking in her appearance thoroughly: Faded jeans, old T-shirt, hair in a loose ponytail. To his surprise she didn't smell of sweat, despite the high temperature in the room; apparently she was using one of these new deodorants that grow more intense the more the body heats up. Chance couldn't help but take an extra whiff of that delicious scent.

"As you said, I brought this upon myself." She took a sip from a bottle of water. "So I guess it's also my job to finish it myself." She offered him a fresh bottle. He accepted it.

"Guerrero said the video shows that you shot the BRM killer first in one foot, then in the other. Afterwards you proceeded to the kneecaps. First the right one, then the left one. According to Guerrero you pulled up a chair and watched him writhe at your feet for minutes on end. You waited half an hour before finally aiming at his head."

Emma turned away from Chance, staring off into the distance.

"Thirty minutes, Emma. With four non-lethal gunshots. That's torture."

When she didn't move, didn't show any sign at all that she had heard him, Chance stepped next to her. Only then he noticed that she was silently crying.

He gently took her by her shoulder and turned her towards him. Emma raised a little on her feet, apparently with the intention to kiss him, but he anticipated the move and cautiously but firmly redirected her face with this free hand. She ended up pressing it against his chest.

"You lost control", he said. "All you wanted was to stop him, but then somehow things spun out of control." His shirt was getting soaked from her tears.

Chance wrapped his arms around her and pulled her with him to the floor, almost cradling her.

… … …

_Same time. San Diego. Outside an apartment house. _

The young woman climbed out of her car and unstrapped her little daughter from the safety seat. Awkwardly balancing a bulging shopping bag and her kid, she slowly made her way to the building's front door. Predictably, she dropped her keys. She was just about to crouch downwards when a long not heard voice stopped her.

"Let me help you."

The woman wheeled around. "You!"

"It's been a while", Ames cautiously said.

"Not long enough!", the other woman snapped. She crouched down and grabbed the keys before Ames could touch them. "What the hell do you want?"

"Apologize", Ames whispered, barely audible.

For a long moment the young mother just stared at her. Then she laughed harshly. "You? _Apologize_?"

Ames didn't know what to say.

"After all you've done to me you think that's enough? An apology?" The child in her arms sensed her distress and started wriggling.

The woman stomped up the stairs to the building's entrance and inserted her key. She turned it so vehemently that it broke. "Oh no! Not another bill this month!"

"I can get the broken part out", Ames offered. "I can also get you another key. For free."

The woman watched Ames work in silence, the only sounds coming from her more and more upset getting daughter. When Ames was finished, she wordlessly entered the building. "The key would help", she said. Then she closed the door behind her.

Firmly.

… … …

_The warehouse. Ilsa's office. Later in the evening. _

Ilsa was sitting at her desk, staring at her phone. She needed to make those calls. All the material she and Guerrero had collected was totally worthless if she didn't make those calls. She needed to let the various board members know how far she was willing to go to keep her position. She needed to threaten them.

Threaten them.

People she had regarded as friends, once upon a time. People she had celebrated birthdays with, exchanged Christmas presents with… Guerrero had warned her that once she started putting them under pressure, friendship over even just a friendly relationship was not an option anymore.

"You can either be their blackmailer or their friend", he had told her.

So was she really going to call Donald, old schoolmate of Marshall's, and hint at informing his wife about his very insightful credit card billing?

Ilsa glanced at the clock. Chance was gone for more than three hours now. He surely was with this bloody Barnes woman!

"He's not going to wave a magic wand and make it all go away, Ilsa", she reminded herself.

"But he would voice his opinion on my plans. He would either support me or think of something else. He would be _here_."

She was feeling terribly alone.

Images of Chance and that Barnes woman crept up in her mind, unbidden. She tried to push them aside – it was his decision, his alone. If he was more interested in that ruddy agent, so be it.

And then suddenly she felt angry.

Very angry.

Angry enough to call Donald. And Erica. And Sebastian. And all the others…

To hell with them!

… … …

_The warehouse. Almost midnight._

Chance wasn't extraordinarily silent when he exited the elevator, but as soon as he noticed the light in Ilsa's office, he switched into silent mode.

She was sleeping, hunched over her desk. That didn't look comfortable at all. She looked terribly exhausted. Guerrero had told him about her plan to remain head of the Marshall Pucci Foundation. He felt an intense pang of guilt. She wouldn't have to fight if it weren't for her involvement with the team – and he had left her alone. His first impulse was to walk over to her, pick her up and carry her to the couch in the lounge so she could stretch out.

On the other hand, she had shown very finely tuned sensory perception lately and he had Emma's deodorant all over his shirt.

She'd never believe his version of how it got there.

Quietly as a shadow Chance made his way upstairs, into his bedroom and got rid of his shirt. He was already on the verge of putting on a fresh one when he realized that she would notice the fresh smell of the washing powder and conclude that he had changed to hide something from her. He grabbed a used, sweat stained shirt from a pile of unwashed laundry. Yes, this smelt right.

He went back downstairs again, silently, silently, gently picked up Ilsa from her awkward position and carried her into the lounge. As he proceeded to lower her on the couch, she turned in his arms and snuggled into him. She slept so peacefully, he didn't have the heart to put her down, so he carried her upstairs to his own couch where he could sit with her more comfortably.

Ilsa wasn't fully awake. Had she been, she would have immediately gotten up, hell bent on keeping her distanced boss image. Semi-conscious as she was, however, she remained in his arms, taking in the scent of his shirt and with great content not tracing a single whiff of Emma on him.

… … …

_Ten years later. A dark alley somewhere. _

She had noticed a while ago that she was being followed, but no matter how many turns she made, she couldn't shake her pursuer off. Finally she decided to seek direct confrontation.

"Okay, enough is enough. What the hell do you want?", she hissed, wheeling around at the same time and throwing her knife at him. Its mother-of-pearl handle gleamed briefly in the faint light of the lonely streetlamp on the corner.

He caught it with long-practiced ease.

"What did I say about not crossing my paths again?"

_**A/N: another-all-nighter: Couldn't kill that cute cat! Humans, yes, but cats? Thank you for your comment!**_


	15. sleepwalker

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_**~ sleepwalker ~**_

_A decent restaurant. Early evening. _

"I hope she savors this", Guerrero muttered under his breath as he stepped through the restaurant's doors.

Chance looked at Ames, just climbing into the van with several bags of chips and a soft drink, followed closely by Winston who had brought ice cream.

"Oh yes, she does", he replied via earpiece.

"I've hacked into the restaurant's video feed", Winston announced. "We've got visuals."

"For the record: I do not owe her a favor." Guerrero's voice was a low growl.

"I agree with you, it's a gray area. But we discussed the matter and you were outvoted by Ilsa and Winston."

"And _you_, dude."

Chance was fighting hard to keep the grin out of his voice. Guerrero was already testy enough. "Sorry, but this was just too tempting…"

"I'll remember that, next time you need someone to back you up against Ilsa and Winston."

Chance decided to try the reasonable approach. "Ever since the incident in the back alley in Washington, Ames has been way too nervous around you. We can't have that, she needs to concentrate when on a job. Giving her the upper hand – once – will restore her self-confidence."

"Mark my words. I'll remember that."

Ames put in an earpiece, too. "I've reserved table number seven for you", she told Guerrero. "Now, you're really going to like Monica. She's a bit of a slut, but in a good way…"

"See it like that: She could have made you take part in a Mr. Wet T-shirt contest in the Castro instead." Winston was not fighting to keep the grin out of his voice as he switched to the feed from the cameras in the actual dining area.

Ames suddenly froze. "Oh…"

"What?"

"The girl at table number seven… that's not Monica. That's Daisy, a mutual friend. She's… she's nice, too, it's just…"

Meanwhile, Guerrero had made his way to the table. Daisy, a young woman of roughly Ames' age, chubby, short in build, with dark hair cut like a helmet, shot upward abruptly.

Too abruptly for the waiter who just happened to pass her by.

She knocked his fully laden tray off his hand with her shoulder and sent it flying in the direction of the next table where a woman with a not much longer cream-colored evening gown was sitting.

"…just don't order anything that needs to be flambéed", Ames continued hesitantly. "She's sort of… accident prone…"

Winston was rolling on the floor.

"Monica is very sorry but on short notice some important call came in and she couldn't make it", Daisy told Guerrero as they finally sat down. "She said your name is Sean but you prefer being called Rusty, so, hello, Rusty, I'm Daisy."

Chance looked at Ames: "_Rusty_?"

Ames shrugged her shoulders. "You told me to savor it…"

The van shook with Winston's laughter.

A knocked over burning candle later (wow, the waiter was really fast with the fire extinguisher!), they had made it to the appetizer: Salad.

The safest dish Guerrero could think of. Doesn't mean she couldn't wreak havoc with it.

"How many people exactly has she killed so far?", he murmured as she asked the waiter for a new fork.

You don't want to know what happened to the first one. Really.

First aid kit, anyone?

"Don't worry, usually she's the one on the receiving end of her mishaps…"

At this very moment, Daisy started choking on a piece of salad. Guerrero rushed over to her side and applied a Heimlich maneuver. "Maybe we should call it a day?", he suggested, still holding her in his arms.

"Oh no, really, I'll be more careful, I promise…" As she got up she tried to support herself with her left hand on the table, placing it directly on her new fork. Despite the pain, she continued talking. "It's been such a long time since I've been out. And I'm really enjoying your company, Rusty."

If not for the "Rusty", Guerrero had almost felt inclined to sit this evening through – she looked sad enough to touch even his well-protected heart a little. But being RUSTY for another one plus hour? No way.

Time to devise an escape plan.

In the van, Chance felt a bit sorry for the poor girl, too. She seemed like enjoyable company – with the appropriate protective clothing…

Then sudden movement on the camera feed from the alley behind the restaurant caught his attention. A car came speeding down the street, followed by another one in close pursuit. The first car rammed a couple of garbage cans, then skidded to a halt.

"Isn't that Harry?", Winston asked, now just as alert as Chance.

"Guerrero, looks like we've got a situation behind the restaurant."

Ah, the excuse he desperately needed! Guerrero rushed out of the restaurant and had just made it through the backdoor when someone opened fire. He took cover behind a garbage can and pulled out his gun. Winston and Chance were approaching from the other side.

"Harry's in the first car!", Chance shouted. "I'll give you cover!"

Guerrero, who was nearest to the vehicle in question, ducked and ran to the driver's door in a hail of bullets. With one swift move he managed to grab Harry by his jacket.

"Never thought I'd say that, but I'm happy to see you, dude", he told him as he threw him to the ground.

"Nelly", Harry coughed. "You've got to save Nelly."

_**A/N: another-all-nighter: When I started drafting "all the good girls", the ending was the only thing I knew had to be in it; glad you like it!**_


	16. Chapter 16

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_A conference room in London. _

Connie Pucci tried to rub her arms without attracting too much attention. Ilsa was on a roll, definitely. Connie didn't want to tarnish the impact of her speech in any way, shape or form. It was the least she could do at this advanced stage of the proceedings. A couple of minutes from now they would vote on Ilsa's future as the chairwoman of the Marshall Pucci Foundation.

Connie sighed resignedly.

She had spent months trying to placate the board members regarding Ilsa's overseas activities, but it had all been to no avail. They wanted to get her off the board, had set the necessary procedure in motion.

Connie would have been deeply disappointed, had Ilsa simply accepted her fate, and she was definitely on her side in this. But as far as she knew, the other board members weren't. Would Ilsa's flaming speech change their mind? Connie seriously doubted it. As far as she knew, they had already made their decision, and it wasn't in Ilsa's favor.

She rubbed her arms again. It was bloody cold in here. Come to think of it, she had heard some of the maintenance people talk about a problem with the air conditioning in passing. But strangely, when she looked around, she saw a lot of sweating people. Sebastian, for example, kept wiping his forehead. And Erica's blouse showed _sweat stains_ underneath her arms. They all looked pretty nervous. But well, that was understandable, wasn't it? They were about to make a major decision after all.

A knock on the door interrupted Ilsa just as she talked about the values the Foundation promoted, especially regarding the protection of intact family life. A young secretary poked her head in. "I'm sorry, Ms. Pucci, but a Ms. Gilla Havisham from the Oxford Female Student Association called and left a message for you." The secretary handed Ilsa the message Ames had dictated her.

"Ah yes, Ms. Havisham...", Ilsa smiled. "I think you've met her at a conference last year, Donald, haven't you? Very bright young lady."

Connie frowned. Was it just her or had Donald turned a little green?

… … …

_The warehouse. A couple of hours after the incident in the back alley behind the restaurant. _

"I saw the van and hoped you'd notice I could do with some backup", Harry explained, pressing a wet washcloth against his bruised forehead.

"_Notice?_ We and half of San Francisco noticed!", Winston exclaimed. "Shootouts tend to do that. I had to call in quite a few favors to cover the whole thing up. And I still don't see why."

"I'm sorry", Harry replied in a rather piqued voice. "It's not my fault someone opened fire on us!"

"That's still up for debate, dude." Guerrero poured himself another cup of tea and offered Harry's client one, too. The blonde woman shook her head. She looked pretty distraught, with dark shadows under her eyes, as if she hadn't slept properly in days.

"The people who are after Nelly are really dangerous! They belong to a sect, and you know how it is with sects! Like krakens with a thousand tentacles, they have their spies everywhere. The police is definitely not an option. You wouldn't believe how many times they've tracked us down already!"

Guerrero rolled his eyes.

"It's not a sect." Everyone turned. So far Harry had done all the talking. The young woman he had introduced as "Nelly" had been so silent, they had started wondering if she was mute.

Well, apparently she was merely exceptionally taciturn.

"It's not a sect", she repeated. "It's a community. A very small community who owns a farm in the hills of California and practices all sorts of alternative lifestyles. It's not primarily religious – we've got Catholics, Jews, Buddhists, atheists, Wicca, one even claims to be Jedi… My father brought me there when I was two. It's where I grew up."

"You've been brainwashed", Harry insisted. "That's what these sects do."

Nelly sighed. "After my father's death a couple of months ago I felt I needed some time of my own… I've been battling with nightmares lately and I thought maybe a change of environment would help. They were very understanding."

"They _seemed _to be very understanding", Harry chimed in again. "But now they want to avenge that you've left them."

The woman shook her head. "I can't believe this. They were like family to me."

Winston looked at Chance, absolutely sure that this sentence had touched a chord. The Old Man had been his family for a damn long while – coming to see his true colors had been a very painful process, maybe this Nelly was standing at the beginning of it? He could see Chance's protective instinct awaken.

"Well, whatever is going on, we'll figure it out", Chance assured her.

"And here we go...", Winston thought.

Harry looked like a kicked puppy.

"We'll help Harry figure it out, I mean.", Chance quickly corrected himself.

… … …

_Emma Barnes' house. _

Speaking of figuring something out…

Emma Barnes was currently caught up in a nightmare of her on. She had to figure this out. Goddamn it, she HAD to figure this out.

Narrations – exaggerated narrations – of the disastrous operation at Dulles airport had made their way to the San Franciscan office. Along with other reports regarding her rather erratic behavior in the months prior to her transfer, they hadn't exactly helped building her reputation here.

There had been a time when she had been regarded as one of the Bureau's future stars.

Even the incident at the Russian embassy hadn't really changed that – the case of a lifetime that Chance had handed her had totally repaired the slight dent her reputation had suffered back then.

But the six months after she had killed the Blue Ridge Mountain killer were a different story.

Now that that problem was taken care of – she shuddered at the memory of her and Guerrero going after Robinson – it was time to work on her career again. But with stories like the one of the Dulles airport operation making rounds?

Well, she definitely needed to prove herself.

The only problem was, the case she was working on didn't seem suitable for that at all.

Damnit, she had no idea at all how to behave in that environment, what to say, when to strike…

She knew someone who did, though…

NO. That was definitely not an option.

Or was it?

Emma had spent the last two hours pacing up and down the room, debating exactly that.

… … …

_Ames' house. _

"I'm sorry for the mess", Ames apologized as she led Nelly into the guestroom of her newly acquired house. "But we've only just moved in and with my husband being away on a conference for the weekend, I didn't get far with tidying up."

"I hope I don't wake you tonight", Nelly replied. "My nightmares are pretty bad."

An incoming text message on her mobile distracted Ames. "Don't worry, I won't sleep much anyway. Winston and I will take turns watching over you." She sighed. The message was from Daisy.

As Ames walked down the stairs to the living-room, Winston nodded appreciatively. "Nice one", he said. "Solidly built. Good houses make good foundations for a long lasting marriages."

Her face shone with pride.

… … …

_London. _

Ilsa walked out of the conference room with a new spring in her steps. Re-elected. Unanimously!

"We should celebrate this with dinner at Corelli's", Connie suggested.

At this very moment, Ilsa's mobile phone signaled. She pulled it out, read the message and frowned.

"Yes", she answered her sister-in-law, "We should do that."

She needed time to think before reacting.


	17. Chapter 17

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_A garage somewhere in the Bay Area._

"You can't fool me. I'm not buying any of this. You're trying to scare me, that's all." Even though Guerrero was shackling him to a wall, the man was still shaking his head in denial.

… … …

_The hills of California. Chance and Winston in a rented car. _

"He's _busy_!", Winston exploded. "How can he be _busy_? Leaving Harry and Nelly alone with Ames!"

"We've let Ames on the team. It's been a rocky beginning, but she's done good work lately. Maybe it's time to show some confidence in her abilities."

Of course Winston immediately picked up the slight hesitation in Chance's voice. "You don't like this either!", he triumphed.

Chance sighed. No, he didn't like it. But Guerrero usually knew what he was doing. Besides that he had to concentrate on the task at hand: The community Nelly came from was pretty tight knit, getting in there wasn't going to be easy…

… … …

_The garage. _

"You goddamn freak, you're going to pay for this!", the man spat.

… … …

_The warehouse. _

Ames was on edge. "I've got the utmost confidence in you", Guerrero had said.

Great, but what if she messed up? This was her chance to wipe out her blunder in the back alley in Washington. She needed to make this work!

For the fifth time in about ten minutes, Ames checked the security cameras. That black SUV, hadn't it passed through the street behind the warehouse two minutes ago already?

… … …

_The garage. _

The man pulled at his chains. In vain, of course. He pulled again, with more force. They didn't give an inch. He groaned in frustration.

… … …

_A farmhouse in the hills of California. _

"I'm almost there", Chance told Winston via earpiece. "Communities like these are usually very distrusting towards strangers. If I don't get in it's your turn and we'll play the minority card." He knocked at the red painted farmhouse door.

The door flew open and the next thing Chance knew was that he was being tightly embraced by a middle-aged woman with long, graying hair. "I knew you were coming!", she cried.

She grabbed his left wrist, pulled him into the house and dragged him into a large kitchen with adjacent dining area. About twenty people were gathered there, busy with laying the oversize wooden table and preparing food.

"The visitor I said would come is here!", the woman exclaimed excitedly. "I was right! My prediction was correct!"

The others, in various grades of blatancy, rolled their eyes. "I hate to break this to you, Moira, but you said a pregnant teenager would seek refuge with us", a man in his late twenties with spectacles replied. "Two weeks ago."

Moira remained unfazed. "The art of clairvoyance isn't an exact science." She gave Chance a quick once-over and shrugged. "From my point of view it's close enough."

… … …

_The garage. _

The man spoke very slowly, apparently aiming at appearing determined. "I see that you're serious and I do understand that this will be painful. But you won't break me. I'm not going to tell you anything."

… … …

_The warehouse. _

"I'm telling you", Nelly insisted. "It's not a sect. The farm is not a smaller version of Jonestown. We don't even have a leader – leadership rotates. Deciding after which system was a nightmare: Some voted for the phases of the moon, others suggested every fifth of the month according to the French Revolutionary Calendar…"

"Brainwashed", Harry diagnosed. "You're definitely showing all characteristics of a person who's been thoroughly brainwashed."

Ames was only half-listening. There was a strange noise coming from the roof. Or was it? Damn, she was going crazy!

… … …

_The farm. _

"For this wonderful food we give thanks to God…" the young man with the spectacles began. Some people at the table nodded.

"…or the Gods…"

Some other people at the table nodded.

"…or the almighty forces of nature…"

Moira and another, red-haired woman, nodded.

"… or the force…"

A man in a long cloak nodded.

"… or nobody."

A young woman with very short hair nodded vehemently.

The people around the table briefly joined hands and bowed. Then everybody sat down.

Chance eyed his food conspicuously. Was this bread?

"Garcia was in charge of cooking today", the man in the cloak explained quietly. "He's hardcore vegan. Sorry, not the ideal welcome meal, but later we'll all gather in Nicole's room. She's an anarchist and strictly opposes any form of rules; among other things she cooks her own food on days the official dish is not to her liking. To - erm - _punish_ her for this unsocial behavior we eat it all up. Don't worry, there's always enough for everyone…"

"No go tonight", the young woman with the very short hair chimed in. "It's the day of our monthly gathering, remember?"

The man in the cloak sighed resignedly.

… … …

_The warehouse. _

Nelly had fallen asleep about half an hour ago. Ames and Harry had tucked her in and at first she had slept peacefully, but now she was beginning to stir. "Her nightmares are setting in", Harry said.

Sure enough, a short time later her stirring turned into tossing and turning. Beads of sweat appeared on her forehead. She was whimpering like a trapped cat.

Then suddenly her eyes flew open and she screamed. A long, wailing scream, that made Ames skin crawl.

Harry took Nelly in his arms. She was shivering all over.

… … …

_The garage. _

Speaking of screams…

The man recognized the instrument in Guerrero's hands and - well – screamed.

… … …

_The farm._

"We're going to _undress _now? All of us?" Chance was usually pretty good at hiding his true emotions when undercover, but this was a bit much…

"Well, Garcia is not only hardcore vegan, he's also a fierce supporter of complete equality, so when he runs a gathering he insists on all of us being naked, to ensure an atmosphere of solidarity. And since he's got a crush on Chantrelle, the Wicca, we're also going to lit a fire and dance around it, as a lead-in to the evening."

Chance had stayed undercover in prisons, mental institutions, boot camps and monasteries to help a client, but this time he seriously considered running off before the job was finished.

Fast.

"Dude?" Guerrero's voice via earpiece. "Pack your bag and get back to the office. I've obtained some interesting information."

Chance quickly put his shirt back on, thanking God.

And the other stuff.

And nobody.

… … …

_Emma's house. _

Emma opened the door. For a moment neither of the women spoke. Then Emma asked Ilsa in.


	18. Chapter 18

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_The warehouse._

"Harry." Winston took a deep breath and adjusted his glasses. "How did you meet Nelly?"

Harry threw himself into hero pose. "She was sitting on a bench in the Botanical Garden, looking at a statue of John McLaren. I just happened to pass her by when someone opened fire on her."

"He saved my life", Nelly said, smiling reluctantly at Harry. "If he hadn't grabbed me and thrown me to the ground… I was totally lost in thought, I never saw it coming…"

"Of course I immediately offered her my help." Harry was practically swollen with pride.

"Yeah, about that…" Winston threw Chance a look. _"You're his friend. You burst his bubble"_, said that look.

Chance sighed. "Well, the good news is…" he turned to Nelly "…your community is not after you. They're all shades of wacky, but they're definitively not a defector killing sect."

Nelly made a triumphant "I told you so!"- gesture in the direction of Harry and her face spoke of great relief, but only for a moment, then the deep lines of worry returned. "So who is after me?", she asked, bracing herself for the worst.

"No one's after _you_", Guerrero stated flatly.

"Does the name "Elton Dorset Construction" tell you anything, HARRY?", Winston asked, staring pointedly at him.

Harry shifted in his seat. "That's confidential…"

"Harry." Guerrero didn't need to say anything else.

"I tried to – erm – _retrieve_ information from their office, for a client…"

"When?"

"I think it was on the… I'm not quite sure, I've got to check my…."

"The day before you met Nelly?", Winston volunteered.

"Yes! How do you know?"

Chance sighed again. He felt truly sorry for his friend. "When you broke into Dorset's office, you tripped the alarm system."

Harry nodded. "Yes, but of course I had thought about an escape route and managed to get away."

"You managed to get away because the cops ran into an art theft that was going on one floor below Dorset's office", Winston explained, trying not to sound like talking to a child. "The theft was ordered by Tony Bevilacqua, who didn't take kindly to the defeat of his plans."

Slowly – very slowly – realization dawned on Harry's face. "_I _am the target here? Those thugs are after _me_? She just happened to sit there when someone opened fire on _me_? The only one who exposed Nelly to danger was _me_?"

He looked like a kicked puppy again, and this time Chance could do nothing to ease his pain.

… … …

_An office building in San Francisco's FiDi, a couple of days later. _

"This…", Ames snorted, "…is ridiculous. Are you really serious about this? You want me to stand here and that's it?"

"Something wrong with your hearing?" Guerrero's tone via earpiece made it very clear that the matter wasn't up for debate.

Ames blew her bangs away from her face. It wasn't that she didn't understand the plan, it was more that her fingers were itching. Standing right next to this enormously valuable painting and not being allowed to touch it, much less take it from the wall and steal it was a truly frustrating experience.

Ten long minutes passed by before she heard from Guerrero again: "That should be sufficient. You can meet them now."

"If I had really stolen that painting it would've taken me less than three minutes!", she grumbled under her breath and picked up the painting that had been resting at her feet. She quietly slipped out of the building, looked around then handed it to the driver of the SUV with the tinted windows. Chance was hiding in the building's shadow, gun at the ready. There was no trusting Tony Bevilacqua.

"And you think Bevilacqua won't notice that we gave him the copy instead of swapping the paintings?", Winston asked Guerrero as Ames and Chance slowly made their way back to the van.

"First of all, dude, Bevilacqua wants the painting for himself, out of sentimental reasons. It's not likely he'll have an expert's report made on it. Secondly Neal Caffrey's forgeries are the best. There's still a work of his on display in the MoMa. We owe him a favor now, by the way."

… … …

_The warehouse. A couple of hours later._

Winston had left his cell phone at the office. He was surprised to find Guerrero in the conference room, apparently working on the computer. It looked like he was installing new software.

"Do I want to know?"

At this very moment they heard movement upstairs and a short time later Chance appeared, barefooted, hair a bit unruly, probably from sleeping on the sofa. Guerrero quickly closed the window that indicated the software had been successfully installed.

"So you found the cookies Nelly sent to say thank you", Winston stated, nodding at the crumbs on Chance's shirt. "Did you leave any for us?

Chance replied with a boyish grin and a shrug of his shoulders. "I almost had to dance naked around a fire…"

"Don't know what she's thanking us for anyway", Guerrero mused. "She never actually was in trouble."

They sat in silence for a long moment, all thinking about the same thing – Ames had given them a very vivid description of what Nelly was going through every night.

"There's something about those nightmares that's bothering me a great deal", Chance finally spoke up. "Call Ames, we'll take a closer look at them."

"What about Ilsa?", Winston asked.

Speaking of bothering...

Chance shook his head. He had tried to talk to Ilsa about her reelection, but she had been pretty elusive lately. Usually that was his part. What the hell was she up to?

As soon as they'd thrown some light on the Nelly issue, he'd do some digging.

_**A/N: Thank you, another-all-nighter, as always, for your review! I can't stress how much feedback means to me. Writing that prayer was fun! My favorite part, however is: pregnant teenager? close enough!**_


	19. Chapter 19

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_The warehouse in the middle of the same night. _

"You've brought cookies?", Winston greeted Ames with raised eyebrows as she stepped out of the elevator.

"Nelly sent me some for watching over her. I thought I'd share with you."

Winston gave Chance a pointed look.

"Hey, _she_ didn't almost have to dance naked around a fire!"

Guerrero reached over to the box of cookies and grabbed some. Ames rummaged around in her bags and produced a couple of loose sheets, earning more raised eyebrows from Winston.

"The report. For Ilsa." She said it as if her having it already finished was the most natural thing in the world.

Guerrero urged her with a nod to start reading and polished off another cookie.

"Three knocks on the door, very quietly. Then three more knocks, louder. Finally three bangs and then the bursting of wood." Ames looked up from her report. "That's how all of Nelly's nightmares begin."

"Her shrink says the knocks represent the future, knocking on her door. Her father's death left her with deep fear of the challenges she'll now have to face alone", Winston read from the patient file Guerrero had retrieved while they had been waiting for Ames.

"The next part of the dream consists of something Nelly calls "the chaos phase" – a horrible mixture of voices, screams, shattering and crashing noises…."

"This represents the emotional chaos she's currently going through. Her father's death left her with a void. She doesn't know what to do and feels confused." Winston frowned while reading. Too many sessions with police psychologists and couple therapists had left him with a deep mistrust towards anyone who professionally meddled with someone else's mind.

"The chaos of noises ends in sudden and complete silence. That silence terrifies Nelly a lot more than the noises. That's when the dream "turns red" – she hears footsteps in the eerie silence and then everything becomes crimson red."

"Her shrink interprets that as her longing to be back in her mother's womb."

"But if she's "longing", then why is she terrified?" Chance reached for the cookies. "Doesn't make any sense." Guerrero pulled the box away from his friend, fished out a single cookie and handed it to him.

"Out of the red, a hand appears. That's when she starts screaming", Ames finished her report.

"According to this, she's angry with God for taking her father away", Winston read from the file, clearly not convinced.

Guerrero snorted and took another cookie.

Chance shook his head. "Her father's death triggered something, so far the shrink's right. But I don't buy this abandonment issue stuff. If she feels overwhelmed with facing her life alone, then why did she leave the farm? The people there would have provided her with plenty of suggestions regarding her future decisions. This is only half the picture. Call Nelly. We need more information."

… … …

_The warehouse later in the night or, depending on your point of view, very early in the morning. _

"Let's put this into chronological order", Winston said, studying the list of places Nelly remembered visiting. "Nelly's father dies and her nightmares set in. She decides to leave the farm because she needs time to think…"

"Did she ever explain why she came to San Francisco of all places?" Chance tried to get another cookie from Guerrero. "Try" being the operative word here…

"Does it matter?" Ames asked. "I can't explain why I went here either; I just kind of stranded here."

"Maybe her subconsciousness was speaking", Guerrero mused.

Winston shot him a doubtful look.

"How do you think I figure out most passwords? The subconsciousness speaks all the time."

"Nelly said she was totally lost in thought when she was looking at that McLaren guy statue…Could that be her subconsciousness speaking?"

Ames noticed that everyone was staring at her.

"Yes, I've read your reports, too. Stop looking at me as if I just sprouted a second head!"

Guerrero wrested the list from Winston's hand and started typing into the computer. A short time later a street map of San Francisco appeared on the screen, several places marked with blinking dots.

"McLaren statue, McLaren Park, McLaren Avenue…", Ames read. "Her subconsciousness seems to be interested in that name. That something to go on?"

Guerrero shook his head. "Too broad a search item."

"McLaren and San Francisco?"

He shook his head again. Ames let out a frustrated groan.

"You end up with tons of stuff about gardening", Winston reluctantly agreed with Guerrero. "But look at the other places she visited. She regularly eats at a restaurant in Francisco Street. She's rented an apartment in Franconia Street and she's washing her clothes at a Laundromat in Franklin Street."

Chance and Guerrero figured it out at the same time.

_A complete name…_

"But isn't that still too broad…?", Chance asked his friend.

"Have faith, dude…" Guerrero started typing again.

An hour later they had a result.

"Oh my God…", Ames whispered, staring at the computer screen.

Even Winston, hardboiled cop that he was, felt his skin crawl as he read through the information Guerrero had uncovered.

"Now her nightmares make sense."


	20. Chapter 20

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_The next day. A state of the art open-plan office. _

Emma retreated to a quiet corner near one of the windows to vent her frustration. "This is ridiculous", she hissed.

"_You _asked for _my_ help, remember?", Ilsa replied via earpiece from the FBI van parked behind the building.

To Emma's ears she sounded oh-so-sitting-on-a-high-horse, for about the millionth time during the past one and a half days she thoroughly regretted bringing Ilsa stick-in-the-ass Pucci into this. "I'm not going to say that", she insisted.

"Dealing with corporate management is like dressage riding. It's a constant alternation between loosening and tightening the reins, applying pressure and lifting…"

"I'm sorry, but I didn't spend my youth riding polo ponies, so cut the high society metaphor crap!" Emma was on edge and if she was honest with herself, it wasn't because of Ilsa. So much depended on this operation, she had made it into the lion's den of the company's leadership, but nevertheless they still had zilch to go on.

After a long moment of silence, Ilsa spoke again: "Corporate management is like a fish tank…"

"Is this your idea of a joke?"

… … …

_Same time at the warehouse. _

To their great surprise, Harry was accompanying Nelly when she stepped out of the elevator. Apparently she wasn't too upset about him accidentally exposing her to mortal peril.

"Growing up on the farm, I've received some pretty cryptic telephone calls, but yours last night made it into the top ten nevertheless", Nelly told Winston, trying to make light of the situation. Her pale complexion and her shaking hands, however, indicated clearly that she was fearing bad news.

Unfortunately, very rightfully so.

"Did the places I visited tell you something?", she asked.

Guerrero poured her a cup of tea.

"The places you visited all fall into one of two categories", Winston began to explain. "The first one was easy. You showed obvious interest in everything that had to do with the name "McLaren". The second was more difficult: You regularly eat at a restaurant in Francisco Street, you've rented an apartment in Franconia Street and you're washing your clothes at a Laundromat in Franklin Street..."

Guerrero hit a key and the names appeared on the conference room's monitor.

"We wondered what the words had in common", Winston continued.

Guerrero hit another key. The names on the screen started moving till they overlaid each other.

**Fran**cisco Street

**Fran**conia Street

**Fran**klin Street

_Fran. _

_Fran McLaren. _

A complete name.

Nelly's eyes widened. "I think I've heard that name before, but I don't know where…"

"Your subconscious knows", Chance said.

… … …

_The open-plan office. _

"One more comparison that includes any kind sea dweller and I swear I'll make you swallow a goldfish." Emma was pissed to no end. But - although she'd rather have bitten her tongue off than admit it – Ilsa's explanation made sense. She walked over to the executive secretary (the bluestreak cleaner wrasse), asked for a file she knew wouldn't be there and blamed it on one of the younger secretaries (the veiltails). From there it was easy to make fun of the elderly vice presidents (the blobfish) falling for those women's easy-to-see-through charm offensives.

"This way you'll create a bond between you", Ilsa had explained. "Executive secretaries often turn into moray eels in the later years of their career, realizing that their hopes of finding a suitable husband in the office environment were in vain. Use their frustration to your advantage."

Ten minutes later Emma had narrowed down her list of suspects to six people.

Progress! Finally!

… … …

_The warehouse. _

They hadn't really debated who'd break the news to Nelly. This was Winston's special field.

Nobody envied him.

"28 years ago, Robert and Juliet McLaren were gruesomely murdered in their home. They apparently fell prey to a serial killer called the "Friday killer" because he always struck on Fridays. His targets were young, childless couples. Police assumed he came from a foster home and wanted to punish his own parents for giving him away at a young age or something like that." Winston's tone made it very clear what he thought about psychological explanations for serial killers' deeds. "They were never able to confirm the theory because the Friday killer was never found. After the McLarens' murder he vanished forever, no more killings, at least not in the same MO."

"What does that have to do with me?", Nelly asked, her voice barely a whisper.

"The Friday killer made a mistake during his last deed. He overlooked something."

"What mistake?"

"The McLarens _had_ a child."

… … …

_The open-plan office. _

"So you're going to talk to every suspect now, aren't you?" Ilsa's voice over the earpiece.

"No, I'm only going to talk to suspect number three."

Ilsa couldn't believe it. "Why? What if it's suspect number four and he uses the time to get away?"

"Gut feeling", Emma replied curtly.

"_Gut feeling_? You're going to make a major decision as this on the basis of a _gut feeling_?"

Emma walked over to suspect number three's desk. She engaged him in conversation, but he was cautious, didn't let his guard down.

Time was running out.

She needed a result. Now.

He was getting ready to leave.

Emma "accidentally" let her skirt ride up her thighs a little more.

He got up.

Clutching at a straw, she uttered the ridiculous sentence Ilsa had told her.

… … …

_The warehouse. _

25 years as a cop had taught Winston how to break bad news, but nevertheless even his voice trembled when he continued speaking. "Their two years old daughter Fran had only recently moved in with them after being raised by her aunt since her birth. The McLarens had been through a rough time and were just getting ready to begin a new life, finally with her daughter."

Realization dawned on Nelly, slowly, very slowly. Ames couldn't watch her face, it was too painful to see. The silence in the room was almost palpable.

"Fran disappeared the night her parents died. The police assumed the killer had taken her elsewhere, molested her and killed her. Extensive search operations, however, brought no result whatsoever." Winston watched Nelly carefully. Would she be able to deal with all this?

… … …

_The open-plan office._

"You are under arrest. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford one, one will be appointed to you."

Emma clicked the handcuffs shut behind suspect number three's back. Ah, this felt so good! Her gut feeling hadn't betrayed her.

And Ilsa's sentence had worked like a charm…

… … …

_The warehouse._

"The BAU unit that worked on the case disagreed with the police's point of view. One of the agents later made a fortune writing a book about that case. He stated that the arrangement of the bodies indicated remorse, a significant change compared to the killer's usual MO, and assumed that the killer discovered Fran and experienced a feeling of extreme guilt."

Harry took Nelly's hand.

"According to the FBI agent he took the child because he didn't want her to end up in foster care, and ran", Winston concluded.

"All the documents regarding your identity are forgeries", Guerrero stated flatly. There was just no way to say this gently.

"So my "father" was in truth…"

Chance nodded. "He was."

Nelly didn't cry. She just sat motionless for a very long while. Finally she asked to be brought to her apartment. Harry offered her a ride and told her he'd stay for the night.

She nodded. One single, curt nod.

When the elevator slid shut behind the two, Ames' mobile signaled.

"Is Daisy still texting you?", Guerrero asked her.

"This really doesn't matter", she replied, still totally shaken after the ordeal with Nelly.

"Give me her number."


	21. Chapter 21

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_The next day. The warehouse._

"Everything was a lie." Nelly stared out the window. "The man who meant so much to me… who raised me, taught me things, guided me along in life…the man I looked up to… was in truth the murderer of my parents."

She made a small sobbing sound. Chance wondered if it would be a good idea to embrace her, but before he could come to any decision she turned around and faced him. Some time between the sob and the turn her expression had changed. A spark, a tiny one, but definitely a determined one, was now blazing in her gray eyes.

"Sometimes starting from scratch is the best way to start something new."

Chance could only agree with that.

"So you're not going back to the farm?"

She weighed her head. "Not for now. In the future? Maybe. I'd like to meet my family first. The aunt who raised me for the first two years of my life is still alive."

"One of us could accompany you."

"Harry already offered, but thank you."

Chance slightly tilted his head in a questioning expression.

A reluctant smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.

_Starting something new…_

She said her goodbyes to the rest of the team which happened to just come trooping in and left.

"Interesting ending to a case, isn't it?", Winston mused as they all sat down in the lounge. "Nobody's injured for a change. Despite Harry's involvement. Definitely a red-letter day."

Uh-oh, Winston. Don't count your chickens before they're hatched.

But he was unstoppable: "Pizza anyone?"

At this very moment, the elevator signaled unexpectedly. Automatically the men reached for their guns. Ames got ready to dive behind the couch.

… … …

_Roughly at the same time. San Diego. The kitchen of a small apartment._

"So you've seen her recently?", the man asked the young mother whose little daughter was constantly pulling at her hand. The girl didn't like the visitor. There was something about him that upset her. The mother could only agree with that. She didn't like him either. He reminded her of a lawyer, but not one of the Boston Legal kind.

"She had bullied me at school and wanted to apologize for that."

The man's demeanor didn't really change, but she could tell he was very interested. She could see it in his eyes. "Do you know where to find her? Did she leave an address?"

Ames had left her a telephone number, but this man was eerie, no, she didn't want to give it to him.

He produced a wallet, opened it and took out five hundred dollars in cash.

_Five hundred dollars. _

"I'm sure the young lady could do with new shoes or something, couldn't she?", the visitor said.

The mother didn't hesitate long. Ames' face flashed up in her mind – not the current version that had apologized to her, the teenage version that had called her names, ruined her chances to get a proper date, waited after school for her and had taken away her jacket.

"You've been of great help", the visitor said, tucked the card with the number safely away in his wallet and left.

… … …

_The warehouse. _

Emma and Ilsa exited the elevator. Both were laughing.

The men quickly hid their guns away.

"Long time no see", Chance greeted the women. Both stopped talking abruptly, stared at him, then started laughing again.

They had talked about _him_.

"You know the one thing that's worse than getting caught between two chicks, dude?", Guerrero muttered. "Getting caught between two chicks that found some kind of common ground."

Winston poured Chance a glass of Bourbon.

… … …

_A small café, early afternoon. _

Daisy had made an effort. She had paid the hairdresser a visit and invested in new clothes. The message Rusty had sent her had put her on cloud nine. Someone liked her enough to want to see her again – _after _a first date during which she had set the tablecloth on fire, almost killed another guest with a fork and nearly died of suffocation.

Among other incidents…

Someone was willing to put up with her clumsy ways! A totally new experience!

But where was Rusty?

A young man came towards her, roughly her age, very short hair, wiry. Complexion a bit pale, but nice eyes. "Are you Daisy?", he asked to her utter surprise.

Daisy's stomach clenched. Rusty not here, a stranger knowing her name… not a good sign.

"I'm sorry, but Rusty couldn't make it, an emergency came up."

Her shoulders slumped. Her back slumped. Everything about her slumped.

This had been so predictable.

"But he had already bought these tickets for this jazz concert… Would you mind if I accompanied you instead? My name's Sergej." He held out his hand.

After a short moment of hesitation she took it.


	22. the crane

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_**~ the crane ~**_

_The warehouse. Some time past noon._

Footsteps on the stairs leading up to Chance's living-quarters.

Click-clack high heels footsteps.

Pissed off click-clack high heels footsteps.

They came to a halt in front of the couch in his living-room.

"I know you're not sleeping."

Chance opened his eyes half-way, blinked a few times, furrowed his eye brows in puppy manner and gave Ilsa his most seemingly innocent smile.

She was having none of it. "Oh, cut the crap."

"What makes you think I wasn't sleeping?"

She so wanted to wipe the smirk off his face. "Because nobody can sleep with this kind of ruckus going on downstairs!"

"NO! We've got to join the parts A5 and Z7 first!" Winston's voice.

"We can't join them! You need oval head woodscrews for that, and these are lag screws!" Guerrero's voice.

"According to this manual, the first step to…"

"Listen, "first step", whom do you believe more, a crappy instruction translated from Chinese by google translator or…"

"Parts A5 and Z7 have to be…"

Chance, laying sprawled on the couch like a contented cat, stretched out his limbs. "It was _your_ idea to buy a new desk and let them set it up."

"You scanned the installation manual last night after the desk's parts were delivered, changed its text with photoshop and swapped it with the original one. But you didn't stop there. You also swapped the screws to make absolutely sure they'd start arguing!

Chance tilted his head. A broad grin spread across his face. Blue eyes sparkled up to her. "Why in the world should I do that?"

"Because you're bored! Nothing is exploding, no building to jump from, you're going stir-crazy. Where's the original manual?"

He spread his palms in a gesture of complete innocence. "I have no idea."

"I can't work with the two constantly going at each other's throats!" Ilsa spotted the corner of a piece of paper underneath his back. She lunged forward and grabbed it. Chance shifted, pinned the paper and part of Ilsa's hand with his full weight. Ilsa didn't want to let go and kept pulling.

That's pretty much the situation in which Winston found the two.

All three of them froze.

Ilsa jumped backwards. "You planned all of this!"

Rolling with barely suppressed laughter, Chance shook his head.

"If you two are finished, there's a message from Emma Barnes just come in."

Chance cocked his eyebrows. Something to do? Finally?

"She wants you to take a look at this." Winston handed him the printout of a surveillance cam still, apparently from an airport. It showed a Bob Marley type of man, but with more beard.

_Is it him?_, said the message Emma had added to the photo.

Chance's expression darkened. All signs of playfulness disappeared as he slowly studied every feature of the man.

"Call her", he finally told Winston after staring at the picture for a full minute. "Tell her she's right." He got up.

"It's Baptiste."

**_A/N: A big thank you to tree979 who helped with the couch part! *ducks again and hides under furniture*_**


	23. Chapter 23

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_A deserted parking lot in L.A. _

Donald Abernathy, proud member of the Marshall Pucci Foundation board of directors, reluctantly got out of his car. He had the intense feeling of making a big mistake, but honestly, what else should he do?

Somewhere in the back of his mind a tiny voice piped up: "You realize that's exactly the kind of thing Ilsa's precious pet project specializes in?"

Donald snorted. Sure. He'd run to Ilsa for help. After all she'd done to him.

Another car pulled up in the parking lot.

… … …

_San Francisco International Airport. _

"He's with me!", Emma told the agent that stepped into Chance's way. She led him directly up into the tower where they had the best view of the hijacked airplane. "I assume the others are listening in?", she muttered under her breath.

Chance nodded.

"It's a hostage situation – 94 passengers, six crew members. A single hijacker", she continued, louder.

"Pulling that kind of thing off at an US-American airport? Baptiste must have a damn good reason to take that kind of a risk." Chance studied the airplane parked on the runway. It was an older model from one of the smaller airlines.

"He's not the hijacker, he's one of the passengers." Emma showed Chance a layout of the airplane and pointed at Baptiste's seat.

"A single hijacker and he hasn't taken him out yet? What is he waiting for?"

"He's probably held back by the same problem our SWAT team faces – the hijacker is wearing a suicide vest. We can't risk it going off on board…" She showed Chance a picture the hijacker had posted of himself on facebook.

He was covered in packages of explosives.

… … …

_The parking lot. _

The man got out of the car and started walking towards Donald. He had never seen him before.

Hang on a second…

Donald vaguely remembered something Ilsa had told him, not too long ago… she had commented on a scene on TV they had caught a glimpse of during some trip for the Foundation.

"Totally unrealistic", she had said. "If he lets him see his face, there's no way he'll let him live."

Back then the comment had sent a shiver down Donald's spine because it had confirmed the rumors that she was maintaining bad company lately.

Today the comment sent a shiver down his spine because he suddenly realized she was right.

If the man let him see his face…

Oh God…

… … …

_San Francisco International Airport. _

"How in the world did he get in there with that stuff?", Winston asked via earpiece.

"According to the airline's website, that's "very complicated to explain". Guerrero's voice.

"We need to get the hijacker off the plane…", Chance mused.

"That's exactly what the SWAT team says", Emma nodded, then paused for a moment. "I told them I've got an inside man aboard who could provide a solution for that problem…"

"You did _what_?"

"I figured it's in Baptiste's own interest to work with us…he could get the hijacker off the plane and SWAT takes care of the rest." Emma smiled. "They're already setting up an electromagnetic field to jam the signal that would set off the explosion."

Chance couldn't believe it.

Neither could the others.

"Did she just admit planning to use _Baptiste_ as a career boost by pretending he's working for her?" Winston's voice again.

"Where's the difference to last time?" Emma really didn't see where the problem was. "Case of a lifetime, remember? I used him back then, too. _You _handed him to me."

"The difference is that this time you're depending on his cooperation!" Chance still couldn't believe it. "How are you planning to sell that to him?"

A snort via earpiece. "Why do you think she called you in, dude?"

… … …

_The parking lot._

"I've done everything you told me", Donald told the approaching man.

"And you've done very well." He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket.

Donald held his breath.

The man produced a small bundle.

Money.

Oh, thank God, it was just money.

And quite a lot of it.

"For your efforts."

Greatly relieved, Donald took it, not realizing that generosity in connection with members of the underworld is a cause for concern, not relief.

He also didn't realize that, considering the day's high temperatures, someone wearing thick leather gloves was highly conspicuous.

… … …

_Inside the airplane. _

The flight attendant slowly approached the hijacker. "Passenger 37 desperately needs his medicine. He can't take it without water."

The hijacker looked at Baptiste, tried to weigh whether this was some kind of set up or not and decided that nobody would risk his bombs going off on board. He was wearing enough C4 to reduce the plane to shreds.

As you already know, he was right about that.

They absolutely wouldn't risk an explosion.

Not on board.

The flight attendant brought Baptiste the glass of water he hadn't asked for and bent over to help him adjust his seat, letting a mobile phone with an unread text message slip into his lap while doing that.

Ten minutes later Baptiste started choking.

"Hey man, I thought you'd taken your medicine!" The hijacker approached him.

… … …

_The parking lot. _

Donald felt it even before he got back into his car.

First the palms of his hands started to tingle. Then it felt like flames shooting up his arms.

His heart exploded.

The man started collecting the dollar bills from the ground while Donald was still in his death throes.

… … …

_The airplane. _

It was all a question of timing.

Wasn't it always?

The right timing to detonate the bomb underneath the ambassador's car.

The right timing to pull the trigger to shoot the target and not the little girl that was planting a kiss on his cheek.

And now the right timing to get the hijacker through the airplane's door.

Speed was the key. He needed to get him down the aisle to the door before he realized what was happening and had a chance to set the bomb off.

Just like Chance was good at throwing up on cue, Baptiste could do a very believable "I'm suffocating" performance. He wheezed, choked, coughed, got up, stumbled … yes, the hijacker was taking the bait.

"Sit down again", he yelled. "Sit down or I'll blow the whole damn thing…"

Note to future airplane hijackers: Always, even if you're wearing a vest packed with highly explosive C4, keep a certain distance to your hostages. You never know if one of them isn't a highly trained assassin.

A highly trained pissed-off-that-you-got-in-his-way assassin.

Baptiste grabbed him by the throat, taking advantage of an instinct that's as old as human kind: Something threatens to block your airways, you freeze, at least for a couple of seconds.

And a couple of seconds was all Baptiste needed to get the hijacker to the door.

The pilot unlocked it.

Baptiste gave the hijacker a shove and he fell out of the airplane, directly into a steel container the SWAT team had discreetly set up underneath the door. It was right in the center of a strong electromagnetic field that was supposed to stop the C4 from exploding.

Explosions go off when electric circuits close. Electromagnetic fields prevent that from happening.

They were not taking any chances, however.

The hijacker landed with a thump on a padding in the container. The SWAT team closed the container's lid.

Then they waited.

Should the electromagnetic field not work, the container would repress the explosion and the plane would remain intact.

In contrast to the hijacker.

Should the electromagnetic field work he'd face a trial and eventually capital punishment.

Judge for yourself what you'd wish on him.

The electromagnetic field, however, worked.

_**A/N: A big thank you to niagaraweasel who helped plotting this!**_


	24. Chapter 24

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_The airport. Outside the plane. _

Chance did his best to ignore the voices in his ear as he approached the airplane with Emma_._

"One last time, take off the watch!" Winston was adamant.

"Dude, stop bugging him. He knows what he's doing…"

"Chance purposefully put on the watch he stole from Baptiste. It'll piss him off to no end and you're supporting this?", Winston couldn't believe it.

"Trust him, dude…"

"Is that watch new? I've never seen you with it", Emma remarked, nodding at Chance's wrist as they boarded the plane.

"What good should provoking Baptiste do?" Winston was angry. From his point of view, Chance was taking an unnecessary risk.

"It's a safety measure", Chance told Emma.

"And what the hell's that supposed to mean?", Winston snarled.

"Baptiste will want his watch back. As long as he doesn't have it, he'll stick around", Guerrero told Winston as if talking to a five year old.

"He'll stick around anyway! Emma is about to arrest him!"

"And you really think he'll remain arrested? It's _Baptiste_, dude. He should be in a Russian prison right now, remember? What does the fact that he's in California instead tell you?"

"He can't escape with that many FBI people around."

"Wait and see, dude."

… … …

_Inside the plane. _

Baptiste with beard and long hair looked absurd. But he had definitely beaten the facial recognition software. He stood motionless as they approached him. His eyes, however, didn't leave Chance for a second.

He didn't acknowledge Emma's presence, except for the ghost of a disdainful smile that flashed over his face.

Inside, however, Baptiste was raging. _Agent Barnes_. Again.

Damn it.

He had counted on encountering Chance alone. Should he even try…? Well, thanks to the bloody hijacker it wasn't that he had many other options, was it?

"I came here to talk to you", Baptiste told Chance as Emma handcuffed him.

"Then talk." Chance was wary. Just like Guerrero he expected him to try and escape any minute.

Baptiste, with his hands cuffed beneath his back, ignored Emma's attempt to shove him forwards. "You need to set me free first."

To Emma, he sounded demanding.

Chance, however, picked up a strange note in the way he said it. Resignedly somehow. As if he didn't really believe in the success of his request.

Emma, angry at being treated like thin air, snorted. "Are you kidding me? It's not that I'm not grateful for your help, but Chance already told you in the text message that all I can do is make sure that you stay on US ground this time." She proceeded to lead him off the airplane, with Chance in close pursuit. "I might get you less restrictive conditions of imprisonment, too, but that's it."

Baptiste still completely ignored her. "Someone sent the Crane after me", he told Chance.

Chance tensed immediately.

Uh-oh, that changed everything.

His face displayed what Guerrero spilt out: "Now that's bad news, bro…."

And before Winston could even ask, he continued: "The Crane is what Chance was. The best in the business. You haul Baptiste's ass into custody and he's dead meat."

Coming from Guerrero, this said a lot.

… … …

_Outside the plane. _

It's not easy to keep an unreadable face when a discussion is going on in your ear.

"And you're sure it's not a trick? He's not saying that to make Chance help him escape?" Winston still wasn't completely convinced.

"Would explain why he's in a plane to San Francisco, of all places."

"Emma won't set him free", Winston mused. "She won't risk her career."

Chance couldn't see it, but he knew Guerrero was nodding in agreement.

"So what shall we do now?"

Chance couldn't and Guerrero wouldn't answer him. It didn't take Winston long to figure it out by himself, though.

"You're not actually thinking about overpowering Emma and freeing Baptiste?" His voice climbed several octaves in horror.

Nobody bothered replying. The answer was quite self-evident.

And yes, the irony of the situation wasn't lost on any of them. Only moments before they had been discussing how to thwart any escape plans Baptiste might have, and now...

...now Chance was already sizing Emma up and calculating the distance to the other agents, the SWAT team and the van that was parked outside the airport premises.

Oh the times, they are a-changin...

Baptiste recognized the fine lines of thought on Chance's face but didn't dare let his hopes go up. This wasn't the person he had once known. Not with bloody Agent Barnes around. Junior wouldn't have hesitated for a second to help him escape. Dudley-do-right Chance, on the other hand….

But he definitely _was_ thinking about something…

"Even by your standards this is crazy!", Winston yelled via earpiece.

Chance knew Winston was right, of course. But in custody Baptiste would be a sitting duck…

… … …

_Outside the plane, near the parking space. _

Unfortunately Baptiste wasn't the only one to recognize the lines on Chance's face.

"What are you up to?", Emma, totally oblivious of the heated conversation between the men, asked. They had almost reached the car in which they'd transport Baptiste.

"Nothing…" Chance tried his boyish smile, but in the past few weeks Emma must have developed some kind of immunity.

"I can see you're planning something."

"You can't do this!" Winston was still yelling. "She knows our names, she knows about the office, you can't rely on charming her into letting something major like that go!"

While Winston was desperately trying to bring Chance to his senses and Chance trying to dispel Emma's suspicions, Guerrero glanced at his mobile, vaguely thinking about ordering Ames to prepare a hideout for Baptiste.

One message from an L.A. informant of his.

Fifteen messages from Ilsa.

He read the informant's message first.

Damn.

The day was really looking up.

... ... ...

_The parking space. _

"Hold on", Chance told Emma as they were about fifteen feet away from the car. "Did anyone watch the vehicles while we were preoccupied with the hijacker?"

He didn't wait for an answer but spun both Emma and Baptiste around, away from the car.

At this very moment, two gunshots rang out in quick succession, then a third one. Chance threw Emma to the ground, Baptiste rolled over, freed himself from the handcuffs she'd put on him and paused. Chance grabbed Emma and dragged her to her feet. Baptiste started rolling again, this time apparently to get up, too, but without presenting too much of a target.

He had made a decision. Seeing how Chance had immediately protected Emma despite knowing that the Crane was after _him_ had made it crystal clear where his priorities lay.

In the process of rolling he bumped into Chance. "I wanted your help", he whispered. "But I see that's not possible anymore."

The agents and the SWAT team drew their weapons, but it was impossible to tell where the shots came from.

"Get away from the cars!", Chance shouted. "He's driving us towards them! There must be a bomb somewhere!"

He had barely said it when the detonation went off – directly underneath the car they had wanted to transport Baptiste in.

The shockwave of the explosion blew everyone off their feet.

When Chance looked up again, Baptiste was gone. And so was the watch on his wrist.


	25. Chapter 25

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_The parking space. _

"He's gone! Goddamn it, WHY IS HE GONE?" Winston yelling via earpiece.

"Because there's a world class assassin after him…?" Chance shook off the dust from the explosion, a little confused why Winston was so upset. They had been planning to let Baptiste escape only a moment ago and now exactly that had happened, even without them having to turn against Emma, so what was the big deal?

Actually this was kind of a blessing in disguise, wasn't it?

Granted, very good disguise, given the bomb and the gun shots and all, but still… you know what I mean.

"Not Baptiste! Guerrero! Guerrero is gone! He dashed out the van the second Baptiste said that part about having wanted your help!"

Before Chance could even think about forming a reply, a horribly shrill whistling sound threatened to split their eardrums. A second later the earpieces were dead.

This kind of thing happens when bombs go off at airports – everybody starts making phone calls and in the sudden onslaught of mobile communication the sometimes very delicate signals that keep the earpieces working get lost.

"Winston? WINSTON!" This time it was Chance that was yelling.

On the air nothing but silence.

Damn it!

No means of communication and Guerrero out there on his own. He must be following Baptiste, had probably guessed from the video feed of the security cams where he was heading…

Chance's first impulse was to start running. He knew where he'd go if he were Baptiste.

But there was still Emma hanging on his back! And he had no way to contact Winston...

"Are you okay? You look pretty shaken." Emma looked at him worriedly and tried to wipe dust off his face in a gesture of comfort. He turned away and nodded absent-mindedly.

If Guerrero found Baptiste, what would Baptiste do to him?

What would they do to each other?

And even worse, what if the Crane was still around?

What would he do to them?

… … …

_The van. _

Winston threw down his headphones in frustration.

Damn Guerrero! How dare he run off like that? He must have had an idea where Baptiste was heading.

But why follow him? Why not let him run?

… … …

_A private hangar. _

The clicking sound of a gun's safety trigger made Baptiste stop dead in his tracks.

"I couldn't care less about you becoming Crane food or not, but Chance unfortunately does." Guerrero stepped out of the shadowy corner where he had awaited Baptiste. "Hey mate." He was aiming straight at his forehead.

"Hey dude." Baptiste slowly turned around. "I've just told _Chance…_" he spat out the name like a curse word "…that I'm not interested in his help anymore."

"And you really think that'll matter? You and I both know he'll try and stop the Crane. He'll take on whoever ordered your kill and he won't stop till you're safe."

Baptiste did his best to make the smile on his face look like a smirk.

"So that's why you're here, right? You don't want him to take that risk for me. You're going to kill me, blame it on the Crane, end of story."

Guerrero shrugged his shoulders, his gun hand not wavering the slightest.

… … …

_The van. _

Think, Winston, think! Where would you go if you were a highly trained assassin on the run from another assassin?

Useless! He'd tried to get into Chance's head for the past six years and still every job felt like a rollercoaster ride in the dark.

What had Guerrero seen?

He hectically replayed the video material from the past few minutes.

… … …

_The parking space. _

One should think a man with the kind of life Christopher Chance/Junior had led would come up with a couple of veritable torture scenarios if asked about the most nightmarish situation he could think of.

In fact he would describe a situation similar to this: Him in perfect health and not in danger, but without any option whatsoever to help a friend in mortal peril.

The Crane was still lurking somewhere!

Everything inside him screamed to rush to Guerrero's aid.

But with Emma, who was sensing that something was wrong and thus not letting him out of her sight, he couldn't. She'd follow him and arrest Baptiste again and they'd be right back to square one.

He vowed to kick Guerrero's ass for his stubborn solitary ways at the next earliest opportunity.

… … …

_The hangar. _

Guerrero sighed. He had contemplated killing Baptiste and he had been tempted. But Chance was no idiot, he'd figure it out eventually and not take kindly to this solution, so unfortunately, it wasn't an option.

"The list of your enemies is too long. Without you it'll take an eternity to find out who hired the Crane. You come with me and help us get you out of this mess fast."

Baptiste grinned and stepped closer towards Guerrero. "If I come with you in the end that Barnes woman will arrest me again. No way."

Guerrero shifted his gun. "That I can't kill you doesn't mean I have to spare your kneecaps, mate."

Instead of an answer, Baptiste lunged forward, tackling Guerrero in the mid-section and knocking him off his feet. Guerrero headbutted him and jerked his knee upwards, but Baptiste was already rolling them over, smacking his glasses off in the process. The gun had skidded out of reach.

Out of Baptiste's and Guerrero's reach, that is.

Guerrero grabbed a fistful of Baptiste's newly grown mane and used it to slam his head backwards against the concrete. Baptiste blindly aimed a punch at Guerrero's unprotected rib cage. A muffled crack and a groan told him he had hit straight home.

Unnoticed by both men, footsteps approached, halted, then approached further, treading even more lightly.

Baptiste had managed to grab Guerrero's throat and was blocking his airways, but the bastard still managed to hold on to his ear and pull. It felt like he was tearing it off and God damn it, where did that knee come from?

A shot rang out. The window of an expensive looking jet black private helicopter shattered into a thousand pieces.

Both men froze.

"Hold it."

For a split second Guerrero let his head sink backwards in relief. Then he pushed Baptiste off him and nodded towards the broken window. "Explaining that item on the expense account to Ilsa will be fun."

"Let's get out of here, wiseass", Winston snarled, pointing the gun at Baptiste and motioning him to get up, too.

… … …

_The parking space. _

"Guerrero just texted. He and Winston are okay", Emma told Chance, looking up from her mobile.

She didn't tell him the second part of the message.

_Need to talk to you in private. G. _

_**A/N: Thank you, jackattack, for your encouraging words! As always, they brightened up my day!**_


	26. Chapter 26

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_The warehouse, kitchen area. _

Baptiste eyed the food suspiciously. "You used to be a lousy cook."

"Picked up a thing or two since the canned tomato and spaghetti days. Still not great, but I'm learning." Chance distributed lasagna on their plates.

"I guess I should thank you for watching me personally instead of simply tying me up somewhere and drugging me." Baptiste cautiously took a mouthful.

"Guerrero's suggestion really hurt your feelings, huh?"

"I'm just wondering."

"My crew can work alone."

Baptiste shook his head and took another mouthful of the lasagna.

"What?"

"Your _crew_…" He stopped shaking his head. "You really don't get it, do you? You could have done so much better – the Old Man was about to hand everything over to you and you had nothing better to do than turn your back on him."

Chance's face turned into a mask of stone.

"Well, at least you treat everyone the same – turned your back on your _crew_, too, if I heard correctly."

"I didn't turn my back on them", Chance replied coldly. Unbidden, the look on Winston's face when they saw each other again after his stint in the ashram flashed up in his mind.

"Yes, I know, you _protected _them." Baptiste grimaced acidly. "Be honest, Junior, at least once. You leaving the Old Man and you leaving your crew was both about protecting _nobody but yourself_."

"Maybe drugging you wouldn't have been such a bad idea after all. Drink?"

"At the bottom of your heart, you're a selfish man, Junior. Selfish."

Chance folded his arms. "You're not going to provoke me into another fight, Baptiste."

For a moment, both men ate in silence, then:

"That's the worst lasagna I've ever eaten."

This time Chance put down his fork. "Now _that_ was low."

"Too much bite to the noodles, no taste to the sauce and where did you get the cheese? Junior High laboratory?" Baptiste put down his fork, too.

"Don't you dare insult my lasagna. You're going to eat it all up."

"Or what?"

A split second later they were wrestling on the floor.

… … …

_A hotel room. _

"This drug is going to render you paralyzed. It'll slow down your breathing significantly and lower your body temperature." Guerrero showed Ames the syringe. "Not a nice feeling. Are you sure about that?"

"There are others ways to put the guy under pressure and make him withdraw the contract hit on Baptiste", Winston added.

"Big company owners like that, there's usually something wrong with the taxes." Ilsa's voice via earpiece. "I'm sure Mr. Guerrero could hack into his computer and…"

"I'm okay with it. Really", Ames insisted.

… … …

_A representative office in a mansion. _

"You must think I'm a monster", the man behind the desk told the man in front of the desk.

"I'm not thinking anything, sir." The mercenary stifled a sigh. A client with scruples. Those were the worst.

"She's a thief, after all." He looked at the file the mercenary had delivered him. "Has never done anything good in her life. Making a living out of stealing other people's property… conning them… It's not that it's much of a loss, is it?"

Another stifled sigh. "You've made your decision, sir."

"If there was any other option…"

"You've made your decision, sir." The mercenary was trying very hard to focus on the giant amount of money this man was willing to pay for the job. Otherwise he'd probably have throttled him. Damn was he getting on his nerves.

… … …

_The hotel room. _

"A dead hooker is the best way to put married guys under pressure", Ames continued. "You'll be right in the next room, what's the worst that could happen?"

"You might react badly to the drug." Guerrero's face was very serious.

"The guy might freak too much and throw you out of the window to make it look like a suicide before we arrive." Winston's face was very serious, too.

"We need to get that Baptiste guy out of Chance's life again. This is the fastest way." Ames had made up her mind. Chance had done so much for her, this was the least she could do.

Via earpiece, Ilsa tried one more time to get through with her taxes solution, but deep inside she knew Ames was right. This was the fastest way. Nevertheless she was very worried.

… … …

_The representative office._

"Once you've got her located, you make sure she doesn't get injured, yes? I don't want her to suffer." The man behind the desk couldn't take his eyes from the photo that showed Ames as a seven year old in Mexico.

"We're professionals, sir."

"It's very important to me that she doesn't get scared or anything. She mustn't know, under no circumstances, what's going to happen to her."

"Of course not, sir."

"We'll put her out of her misery gently. No pain."

The mercenary nodded.

"We're probably doing her a favor. A couple of years down the road she would most likely end up as a dead hooker anyway."

… … …

_The hotel. Early morning. _

Ames did very well. The guy freaked when he found the "dead" hooker in his bed after waking up with what felt like a major hangover from a night of partying but was actually a side effect of the drug they had slipped him.

Of course he was willing to do absolutely EVERYTHING, just to get rid of the body and prevent the photos of him and the hooker from reaching his wife. There was only one tiny complication: He couldn't reach the Crane. The Crane was paranoid, he never left a telephone number or anything that could somehow be traced back to him. When an order had been carried out, he contacted the client to collect his payment.

In other words: Even with the client having changed his mind, the Crane would still strike. They needed to flush him out and nail him.

"Maybe Agent Barnes could help us there?", Ilsa volunteered.

Speaking of Emma Barnes…

… … …

_Emma's house, a couple of hours later. _

"So we're clear about your role in flushing the Crane out, right? Any additional questions?" Guerrero adjusted his glasses.

Emma shook his head. She was on tenterhooks. Ever since Guerrero had sent her that ominous text message, she felt something looming on the horizon and it didn't resemble a silver lining.

Not at all.

"Donald Abernathy, member of the Marshall Pucci Foundation's board of directors, was found dead under suspicious circumstances on a parking lot in L.A.", Guerrero began.

Emma shrugged her shoulders. "So I've heard."

"He was an important man and his death will be thoroughly investigated by the FBI. They'll probably stumble upon a couple of threats he received recently", Guerrero continued.

"You blackmailed him?"

"Ilsa did."

"Well, then Ilsa was very stupid." Emma really didn't see why this issue concerned her.

Give it a minute, darling.

"You'll make any evidence that points into Ilsa's direction disappear", Guerrero told Emma, his tone making it very clear that he wasn't joking.

Nevertheless Emma laughed: "You're asking me to tamper with evidence just because that Pucci woman was stupid enough to commit a crime that can be traced back to her?"

"Not as stupid as leaving behind a video tape of it." Guerrero was totally unfazed. He just sat there, polished his glasses and waited.

Slowly, very slowly it dawned on Emma what he was implying.

"YOU'VE KEPT IT?"

"Don't worry, your little venture into the world of splatter movies is safe with me. Unless of course the FBI finds incriminating material on Ilsa Pucci… they might search the warehouse and then I can't guarantee they wouldn't find your cinematographic masterpiece, too."

Emma was speechless. Guerrero got up and walked out the door.


	27. Chapter 27

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_The cargo hold of a freighter outside San Francisco harbor after nightfall. _

Don't ask why they're on a freighter on open water. Just don't ask.

It had sounded like a great plan.

"Sounded" being the operative word here.

"Emma drops word that they've found out where you're hiding and are going to arrest you. The Crane will try to strike before she hauls you off into custody. That's when we'll get him." Word for word, Baptiste repeated what Chance had told him only a couple of hours ago.

Since they were currently under fire, caught in a Chinese ship's giant cargo hold, with no contact whatsoever to Emma or the others, you can probably imagine the acid tone in which he said it.

"Worked like a charm, mate."

"Would you stop being so petty?" Chance ducked. "Granted, things are not going quite according to plan…" A light bulb exploded right above their heads. "… but generally speaking we're still heading in the right direction."

"_Right direction_?" Baptiste threw himself to the floor.

"Well, the Crane is here, isn't he?" Chance dragged Baptiste into a slightly better protected corner.

One could say so. The Crane was standing on a loading platform, providing him with a perfect overview of the whole hold.

"I should have known this would end in another chaotic detour! Just like the last few jobs before you left… Avoiding the easy way, playing it safe not an option anymore…"

"If by "playing it safe" you mean blowing up complete airplanes to kill one person on board…"

"It's effective! It's clean! It's elegant! The target looks like just another victim – complete protection of the client."

"It's unnecessary overkill. I never taught you that."

The Crane was driving them deeper and deeper into the cargo hold. With a trick he had led Emma and her agents to the other end of the city. Contact to Winston and Guerrero had broken off. Somewhere in the back of his mind Chance was deeply worried about that, but at the moment he needed to concentrate on the problem at hand: They were on their own here.

And damn, had that been a hand grenade?

Hand grenade or not, Baptiste couldn't resist talking back to Chance: "The Old Man appreciated it, though."

"Yeah, that's why he bailed you out of Russian prison…"

… … …

_A small ship outside San Francisco harbor after nightfall, in proximity of the freighter. _

"Hang on a sec, you're going to do WHAT?" Emma's voice via earpiece.

"According to ultrasound scan there's a shootout in the freighter's cargo hold. Judging from the readings Chance and Baptiste are trapped there. We need to get them out, fast." Winston kept his eyes firmly on the scanner's data while Ames helped Guerrero strapping on his equipment.

"That's a CHINESE freighter. What you're planning will cause an international incident!"

"Just don't call in the coast guard."

… … …

_The cargo hold._

"Don't remind me again that it only took him three weeks to get you out of…"

Another explosion, very close by, cut Baptiste off.

"Bit touchy today, aren't we?" Chance crouched next to him, ripped off a piece of his shirt and used it to stop the bleeding on Baptiste's arm.

"I've done EVERYTHING right – never questioned your position as his favorite, listened to all his rants about what a hothead you are, did my best to keep things ticking over and still… still… " Baptiste pushed Chance's hands away the second the bandage was in place.

Chance pushed back.

Another hail of bullets from the Crane brought their attention back to the problem at hand.

"…still he didn't bother helping you after you got arrested by Emma in Washington." Chance finished Baptiste's sentence.

"Am I getting on your nerves? Sorry, mate."

"Well, now that you're asking, you _are_ a bit heavy on the whining side…" A vague thought was forming in the back of Chance's mind, a very vague thought, an alternative explanation why Baptiste hadn't heard from the Old Man since Washington…

A series of faint knocks from the outside of the ship's hull, however, made it disappear again even before it was fully formed.

"Dash – dot – dot – dash… " Baptiste repeated, then his eyes widened. He grabbed Chance's arm and together they jumped into safety, seconds before part of the hull exploded thanks to the payload Guerrero had attached to it.

… … …

_The cargo hold from the Crane's position. _

The Crane was impressed. He'd taken a lot into consideration, but not that they would actually blow a hole into the ship's hull to escape. Not bad.

He briefly considered going after them, but the ship was already tilting.

Well, there would always be a next time.

… … …

_The cargo hold from the boys' position._

Icy cold seawater came pouring in through the ragged metal. The ship started tipping slightly. Without the rope Guerrero was holding from the outside they'd have never made it through the explosion hole, the current would have been too strong. The second they were free and had reached a stable position, he passed them by like a dark shark on the hunt, floating into the cargo hold with the incoming stream.

Chance and Baptiste understood immediately. A Barracuda surprise. Been a while since they tried that…

… … …

_The cargo hold from the Crane's position. _

A flash grenade exploded right underneath the platform from where the Crane had attacked Chance and Baptiste.

A flash grenade? Where the hell was that coming from? Hadn't they just escaped through the…?

Another grenade caused him to postpone the analysis part of the situation and run upstairs, in the direction of the deck.

… … …

_The freighter's deck. _

Baptiste arrived on the freighter's deck first. Climbing up a rope ladder attached to a sinking ship is no easy task, especially not during the night. Fleeing would probably have been easier, but that would have meant seeking another confrontation with the Crane later and now that he knew he was dealing with more than one person… better to end this now, forever.

In more than one regard…

Baptiste grabbed Chance's arm and pulled him upwards. Chance stumbled on the meanwhile violently lurching deck and fell to his knees.

Ah, sorry, forgot to insert important information here…

Baptiste grabbed Chance's arm, pulled him upwards and then, in the process of helping him on his feet, used his knee to hit him hard on the back of his head. Chance stumbled on the meanwhile violently lurching deck and fell to his knees.

What happened next Chance only perceived through a thick haze.

Footsteps approaching. The Crane, most likely, driven in their direction by Guerrero and his flash grenades. Sounds of a fight. A direct confrontation, mano a mano. The safety catch of a gun, released. Baptiste's voice, explaining to the Crane that his client had recalled the job. And then the probably most surprising sentence of the evening: "Nobody deserves to die. Jump overboard." Seconds later, Baptiste by his side, wrapping something around his wrist. "I'll try to stay out of your way, mate." A pat on his shoulder.

Gone was Baptiste.

A split second later Guerrero emerged from below deck and pulled Chance to his feet. "We need to free the crew before the whole thing sinks."

While the very grateful freighter's crew got ready to take to the lifeboats, a message from Winston got through. It would be nice if they could pick them up, too – Baptiste had shown up on the small boat and forced Winston and Ames to take a swim in the ocean.

_**A/N: Sorry for the delay! I was down with the flu and I'm still not 100%; I fear it shows in this chapter. Big thank you to niagaraweasel who helped plotting this! **_


	28. Chapter 28

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_The warehouse._

Not only Baptiste had gotten hurt during the boys' little boat trip. Besides the lump on the back of his head, Chance also sported a huge slash in the area of his ankle, probably from swimming through the explosion hole. Guerrero had patched him up in the office's kitchen area and was now in the process of putting the remnants of his treatment away: Bloody needles, thread, disinfectant, gauze… Casually, Guerrero made one piece of bloody gauze disappear in his pocket.

Of course, Winston chose exactly this moment to exit the office's showering facility and come round the corner.

Had he seen?

Well, he scowled at Guerrero, but it was his usual "Guerrero-is-here"-scowl, not his enhanced "Guerrero-is-up-to-something"-scowl.

"Where's Chance?", he grumbled, rummaging through the fridge in search of his egg salad.

"Off to Emma's."

To Winston's great surprise he found his Tupperware container untouched.

Correction: Seemingly untouched.

Instead of the salad, the box contained an apple.

"You'll want to watch your cholesterol, dude."

… … …

_Ames' house. _

"I can't thank you enough." Ames couldn't stop turning, looking in wonder at her newly designed living-room. "This is exactly how I wanted it to be! The colors! The curtains! How did you…?"

"Your tweets", Ilsa smiled.

"I really can't…"

"You can. The hooker stunt was very dangerous. Letting us drug you with that poison..." Ilsa paused for a moment, remembering the horrible hours of waiting till it had been clear Ames would be okay. "You've made great progress since the Sisters of Antwerp days. I'm proud of you."

Ames looked at Ilsa for a moment and then hugged her. Ilsa returned the embrace and for a tiny period of time, they remained like that, unbeknownst to each other sharing one single thought.

_Glad to have found you. _

… … …

_Emma's house. _

"I hate to tell you, but your friend Guerrero blackmailed me." Emma had briefly wondered whether to tell Chance or not, he and Guerrero seemed very close, but in the end, what other choice did she have? She was so not going to risk her career over this! And their closeness was actually to her advantage, she figured. Chance surely would put a stop to this.

Oh, darling…

"Did he tell you he'd use the video of you and the BRM killer against you, shouldn't you protect Ilsa in that Abernathy case?" Chance sounded rather absent-minded.

Now Emma was surprised. "You _know_?"

"It's his style." Chance was playing with the strap of the watch Baptiste had put on him back on the freighter.

"So are you going to tell him I'm not going to do that?"

Chance got up and ready to leave.

"Everything has consequences, Emma. This is one. You can't go around killing people … torturing people … and expect to simply walk away."

Emma gasped for air.

"You should be glad it's Guerrero you're dealing with. He's a professional. Clear deal: You help Ilsa, the video stays where it is."

And off Chance went.

… … …

_The warehouse. _

Everyone was gone when Chance arrived back at the office.

Good. Made things easier. Or did it?

Chance was undecided, picked up his phone, put it down again… Carmine, sensing his unrest, came to his side, prodded his knees with his nose, made soft whimpering noises…

There was an explanation why the Old Man hadn't helped Baptiste. In fact it was the only logical explanation Chance could think of.

The first two to three weeks of silence had probably been meant as punishment, but after that he would have set the wheels in motion to get Baptiste's ass out of custody. If nothing had interfered…

The assault on the office, bearded guy looking for the book...

Interference for sure, but not enough to keep Joubert from Baptiste.

The message he had received during the helicopter ride afterwards, on the other hand…

A single name, hissed through the Old Man's clenched teeth - _araña_. Him, telling Chance he would have to rescue his friend alone after all.

Back then, with Winston in the hands of the people who had ordered Katherine's death, Chance couldn't have cared less, was even glad he got rid of Joubert in such an unexpectedly uncomplicated way, but now?

Had anyone seen the Old Man after he had parted ways with Chance at the Mexican border?

Well, he still shouldn't care. Should he?

He could easily imagine what Guerrero, Winston, Ilsa would have to say on that matter.

Guerrero would probably drug him and chain him somewhere, Winston would yell at him and Ilsa would cut his finances.

So better act now, alone?

So better act now, alone.

He sat down at his computer and started digging.

It was going to be a long night.

… … …

_A private chapel in a mansion. _

"Forgive me, father, for I'm going to sin", the man in the expensive suit whispered, shaking on his knees.

Soon he wasn't the only one shaking. The priest thought he couldn't believe his ears.

He had heard a lot under the seal of confession, but this?

There had to be something he could do to stop his. There HAD to.

… … …

_The warehouse. _

In the wee hours of the morning, Chance called a number he hadn't called in years. It was THE number, reserved for emergencies. The one number that would always be answered.

Nothing.

No reply except the answering machine.

Chance crawled into bed with his mind reeling.

… … …

_New York. A nondescript office building. _

Baptiste cautiously entered what once had been his home.

It was deserted.

Completely deserted. No one had been here, for months.

Electricity, phone lines etc. were still working. Apparently no one had stopped the automatic bill payment.

Baptiste checked the answering machines. Messages over messages.

But only a single recent one.

He sat for a long time, wondering what to do.

_**A/N: Thank you, jackattack, for taking the time to leave a comment!**_


	29. archenemy

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_**~ archenemy ~**_

_A hut somewhere in a South American jungle. _

Chance gasped in short, clipped breaths. His lung felt like an iron cast, every intake was like weightlifting. Cold sweat covered his whole body. In an attempt to relieve him from his pain a little, someone had removed his drenched shirt and placed a wet washcloth on his forehead.

At least his constant shivering kept the flies at arm's length.

Somebody picked up the black bug that had landed on his abdomen, flicked it to the floor and squashed it.

Flames shot up his arm and set his whole upper body on fire. His muscles seized and a scream formed in his chest.

They would have heard him all the way to the hacienda, had someone not taken the washcloth and stuffed it into his mouth to muffle his outcry.

Chance jerked upright into a sitting position, convulsed, choked. Strong arms embraced him, held him firmly till the seizure subsided.

"You've got to take the cloth out, he'll suffocate from his vomit!"

They wrested it away just in time. He violently threw up into a rusty bucket.

Slowly, carefully, the strong arms lowered him onto the plank bed again. A bottle was pressed to his lips. His mouth filled with water that had a sharp, metallic tang.

"Don't swallow it, it's not boiled."

He bent over and spit the water on the floor.

Chance had lost orientation of time and place hours ago. He was whirling around in a sea of confusion, waves and waves of pain sluicing out his mind, turning his stream of consciousness into a thin trickle. Suddenly he got hold of a wrist and somewhere in the back of his mind he realized it was too thick to be Guerrero's.

Guerrero wasn't here.

He panicked, struggled, lashed out.

Someone caught his arms in mid-motion, stilled them.

"It's okay, Junior, it's okay."

Junior…

Chance jerked upright again. Where was he? In Mexico? Guatemala? Chile? But he had made it out of all these places, why was he back now? Or had he only dreamed he had made it out of these places?

"Lie down, mate." Sturdy hands slowly pushed him backwards once more.

A knock on the hut's door. The screeching of a door hinge. Their contact, finally.

"Ya estan los burros."

"Donkeys? Won't work, matey. We need a jeep."

"Un Jeep no es posible. Solo burros."

"He can't ride!"

"Pues botalo aquí."

_Then dump him here. _

_**A/N: A big thank you to Dreaming Sio who did the Spanish parts for me. You're great!**_


	30. Chapter 30

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_The hut._

The Spanish words tangled and jumbled in Chance's head. He couldn't make sense of the conversation, not even if his life had depended on it.

Wait, his life _did _depend on…

Well…

His thoughts swirled back and forth through time and space, leapt over years and decades and finally came to a halt on an extremely cold winter's day in New York…

"The boy's got talent. Needs a bit of fine-tuning, but talented he is." Joubert took a big swig of Whiskey from his tumbler and stretched back in his executive chair. A low fire was burning comfortably in the fireplace.

"We could send Guerrero to make him an offer", Junior suggested, pouring himself a new glass.

The Old Man shook his head. "No, _you_ approach him. And I don't think we should make money our main argument…"

A couple of days later, in the midst of snow and ice, a young man was desperately trying to open the lid of a dumpster in a cluttered, dark back alley. No easy task, with a freshly dead 260 pound man at your feet and a superficial but stinging knife wound to your shoulder.

Especially not if the bloody lid is frozen solid to the container!

"Looks like you could need a hand there."

The young man spun around and threw a knife in the direction of the unwelcome witness. To his great surprise it was caught with well-practiced ease.

"Whoa, you really are the shoot first, ask questions later type."

The young man found himself face to face with a slightly older man, blond hair, blue eyes. The blonde tilted his head a little and smiled at him, not too broadly, but definitely friendly. Nothing in his posture indicated immediate threat.

Growing up on the streets of London however, had taught Baptiste better than that: He didn't take his eyes off the knife in the stranger's hands. To his great surprise the man turned the knife and tossed it back to him.

"We know each other?", Baptiste asked wearily, catching it and keeping it in his hand, not firmly gripped but at the ready. He was shivering in his thin jacket.

"Not yet. Look, I'm totally for fresh air and all, but my toes are starting to freeze…" Junior nodded at the 260 pounder. "Why don't we get Big & Stupid here out of the way for good and have a little chat over a cup of coffee and a couple of pancakes?"

The evening of the same day Baptiste found himself in the visitor's chair of a non-Manhattan office with heavy, 19th century wooden furniture, thick carpets and dim lighting. The man on the other side of the desk tossed a thick jacket at him. "Keep it. It's freezing out there."

Chance's mind started swirling again, propelled forward a couple of years…

Usually clients didn't get to meet the employees. A rule that made a lot of sense and that Guerrero in particular insisted on being followed meticulously. But these weren't normal clients. If these people set their trust in the Old Man, golden times lay ahead. Joubert opened the door to the office's kitchen with a, for his standards, grand gesture. "And now you're going to meet two of the, if not THE most dangerous assassins in the world…."

The door swung open and revealed two young men wrestling on the floor. Broken plates and knocked over chairs were lying about. The whole kitchen – walls, floors, furniture – was covered with spots of something that looked like… chocolate pudding?

"We've – ahem – tried out a scenario for our next job…", the blond man explained, lopsided smile on his face, mischief gleaming in his eyes, while his comrade wiped pudding off his forehead.

They were punished with a weekend trip hiking in the Appalachians.

Organized by Guerrero.

Ever since the tackle box-sealed-shut-firmly-with-superglue-incident he had been waiting for such an opportunity...

Once more, Chance's memory sped forward, a couple of months only, to another cold winter's day.

"No!", Joubert shouted. "No! You're not going to jump in there!"

"He might be still alive!" Junior kicked off his shoes and got rid of his jacket. Joubert tried to get hold of his arm, tried to jerk him back, but the young man was way too fast for him. A split second later he had disappeared in the lake where the car with Baptiste had broken through the ice.

"I don't want to lose you both!", the Old Man shouted helplessly at the silent, frozen water.

The seconds seemed to stretch into infinity – minutes, hours, years, decades. Joubert wanted to kick Junior's ass for his goddamn recklessness, wanted to grab him and shake him and … embrace him.

For the first time it dawned on him what losing the boy would mean.

The lake's water started moving and splashing, Junior emerged, Baptiste in his arms.

Through the haze of Chance's clouded mind, a single Spanish sentence rang loud and clear.

"No lo vamos a dejar aquí."

_We're not leaving him. _

_**A/N: Again, the Spanish in this chapter was provided by Dreaming Sio. THANK YOU!**_


	31. Chapter 31

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_Three days earlier. The warehouse. _

Carmine gave it away immediately. The way he lay there, in the center of the office, right by the elevator, head on his front paws...

The world's most depressed dog.

Winston had seen him in that posture before, in the awful days after the book incident, when Chance had left for that ashram.

No surprise the sight sent shivers down Winston's spine.

"Chance? Are you awake yet?" Without even waiting for an answer, Winston stomped upstairs. "Chance!"

His living-room was empty, so was his bathroom and his bedroom. It was hard to say if his bed was untouched, Chance never made it, the sheets were always ruffled, but the air in the chamber felt stale, not like someone had recently breathed it for a good night's sleep and only just left to get fresh milk from the store around the corner or something.

Winston sank down on the bed, unsure what happened but deeply worried. He pulled out his mobile and called Chance's number.

No reply.

He tried it thrice.

Nothing.

What the hell was going on here?

… … …

_Ames' house, bedroom._

Ames jerked awake from a strange dream. It hadn't been a nightmare and it hadn't been one of those too-much-Chinese-too-late-in-the-night-dreams where everyone runs around naked, sports metallic antennas and speaks with a funny accent.

She had dreamed about yesterday evening, before the meeting with Ilsa, when she had walked back to her car after getting some groceries for dinner with Alejandro. He loved Tlacoyos. Her last venture into that particular region of Mexican cuisine had been quite a disaster, but she wasn't going to let herself get beaten by a fried cake, so that evening she had been planning to embark on round two.

Nothing, absolutely nothing special had happened on the way back to her car, so why had she dreamed about it? And why was she shivering and bathed in cold sweat?

Ames frowned. The dream had somehow differed from what had really happened, but she wasn't sure in what way. Maybe if she concentrated a little more…

Her cell phone rang, chasing the last remnants of that strange dream away.

Had Winston not called, informing her that they had a big problem at the office, she might have remembered that in the dream, unlike in reality, she had stopped in mid-walk, spun around and seen someone disappearing in the shadows of the building.

But well, Winston _had_ called, so Ames still didn't know that she had been followed.

… … …

_The warehouse._

"A kidnapping maybe?" Ilsa's voice was higher than usual and she couldn't stop pacing up and down.

Winston shook his head. "No signs of a struggle. And believe me, someone takes Chance, there ARE signs of a struggle."

"Locks are all intact, security system is still running…" Guerrero put the elevator cam's video feed on fast forward. "Here's Chance leaving. On his own. With a holdall. 5.30 am."

Everyone stared at the conference room's computer screen.

"Where the hell is he going?"

"Dude. You're yelling."

"But he's right! Where the hell is he going?" Ilsa started pacing again.

"Boss…"

"Yes, I know, I'm yelling."

Guerrero closed the window with the video feed and opened another one. "Chance's personal notebook is gone, but if we're lucky he didn't find the new Trojan I slipped him last week and we get a glimpse of what he's been doing on it last night."

They were lucky.

Or not, considering what they found...

"What the…?" Winston couldn't believe it.

"Who is this man?", Ilsa demanded to know.

Guerrero took a deep breath. "That, boss, is Chance's old boss."

The elevator's doors slid open, Ames stepped out and joined them in the conference room. "Do we know that guy?"

"His name is Joubert. Before Chance became Chance he worked for him." Winston stared at the screen with deep contempt.

"And Chance has done research on him? Why?" Ames frowned at the face on the screen. This Joubert looked like really bad news.

"Maybe he received a threat from him? And left to protect us?", Ilsa mused.

Possible scenario, they all had to agree. But Chance hadn't only researched the Old Man.

A few clicks from Guerrero and another name came up.

"And who's this Araña?"

Good question, Ames. Very good question. Guerrero had come across that name before, a lifetime ago.

"Araña and Joubert share a special relationship…" The screen suddenly turned pitch black. "Chance accessed a website that was taken offline in the meantime…" Guerrero took out his mobile. "I need to put one of my guys on it."

As he accessed his e-mail account, a new message popped up. _got your del will work on it asap_ That was good news, but not relevant right now.

"Maybe we should also include Emma Barnes", Winston suggested. "FBI information on Araña would be pretty much up to date…"

"I'm really not sure if it's a good idea to involve the authorities in our cases so much – we are working in the gray areas of legality after all…"

Everyone turned and stared at Ilsa.

"…and you would hate Agent Barnes saving Chance's ass", Ames completed the sentence but wisely didn't state it.

"I've got Chance answering his cell phone half an hour before he left on video", Guerrero said, pointing at another still on the screen.

"No audio?", Winston asked.

"Chance found the bug a couple of hours after I installed it…", Guerrero grumbled. "Camera was better hidden… I think I can find a lip reader… there's this guy in LA…"

"Let me try it."

Now everyone turned and stared at Ames.

"Hey, you grow up in foster homes, the first thing you learn is to figure out how much they know and how angry they are this time. Staring in from the window is quite safe – in case of "everything" and "very" you can run without having to pick the door lock first."

Ames didn't understand the complete conversation Chance had had, a lot of it was quite vague and Guerrero would have to get his LA guy after all. But about one word she was absolutely sure.

One name she swore Chance had said. Right at the beginning of the conversation, as a greeting.

_Baptiste. _

Oh God damn, Chance had gone to see Baptiste.


	32. Chapter 32

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_A couple of hours later. An outpost somewhere in the South American jungle._

"No, I _still_ don't know how Araña managed to trap the Old Man. I have no idea what the message contained or even if it was from Araña in person or not. All I know is that Joubert received it, hissed the name and then demanded to be dropped off at the Mexican border!"

"No reason to get ratty with me, mate." Baptiste reached out and adjusted Chance's tie. "Just trying to get an idea of what happened." Considering what they were about to do – take on a small army of guards on their home battlefield, a hacienda in the middle of South American nowhere, commanded by one of the world's most notorious criminals - he was in remarkably good spirits.

Joubert hadn't rescued him because he was angry with him, Joubert hadn't rescued him because he needed rescuing himself.

Baptiste felt like whistling a tune.

"Given that Araña is the reason Joubert and his old partner had a fallout after which the partner became Christopher Chance, it probably wasn't too difficult to bait him… maybe the message said Araña was caught somewhere…", Chance mused and took a look at himself in the stained mirror of the rundown hotel room they shared with dozens of creatures of the creepy-crawly kind. No banana spiders in sight so far, but Chance was wary. Well, if everything went according to plan, they wouldn't have to come back here.

Oh, come one, Chance, "if everything went according to plan"? When has it ever?

Baptiste wiped his shiny black shoes one more time. The two looked damn good in their formal dress suits.

A knock on the door. "Señores! Your car!"

Chance and Baptiste looked at each other for a moment, then nodded.

Just like old times...

… … …

_Same time in San Francisco. _

"Chance's formal clothing is missing", Winston reported, coming back from Chance's living-quarters. "Any progress here?"

Sergej shook his bandaged head. "Can't get a hold on that website. Whoever shut it down did it right. It's an expert's work, man." His right hand was bandaged, too, a fact that, of course, didn't escape Guerrero.

"Still seeing that Daisy chick?"

Sergej shrugged his shoulders in a sheepish gesture. "Things have gotten a lot better…" He wondered if Guerrero knew about the incident with the microwave.

Winston walked over to Ilsa's office where the lip reader was working on the video tape of Chance.

"Call Guerrero", Ilsa said, the moment his feet crossed the threshold. "Looks like we're onto something."

… … …

_South American jungle. Inside a limousine. _

Baptiste watched Chance and smiled.

"What?", Chance snapped.

"Here you are, together with me… on your way to rescue the Old Man… after promising to kill us both!"

His smile became a broad grin.

"Don't read too much into this, Baptiste."

"Then enlighten me, matey, why are you here?"

Chance grimaced, face dark. He was thinking of Winston, Guerrero… Doing this alone was safer for them. But the image of Winston after he had come back from the ashram kept popping up in his mind. He'd be pissed.

And, worse, worried.

"I'm not starting something, Baptiste, I'm finishing something."

Baptiste turned his face away and looked out of the window. In the distance, Araña's hacienda came into view.

… … …

_San Francisco. _

"He's not dead", the lip reader translated. "Araña has become a vampire. Currently 15 drug lords, major players in organized crime and gangland bosses are held captive at the hacienda. Some have been there for more than a year. They're kept in good shape till they're auctioned off to their enemies in a grand event, the next one being scheduled for Saturday. I've made an opening bid through a website. We attend, buy him, walk out…"

"_That's_ his plan?" Ilsa was shocked.

"Sounds like Chance." Winston made a groaning sound.

"Vampire?" Ames was confused. "Like glittering in the sun? Huh? I swear I was paying attention!"

"A "vampire" is a criminal who turns against other criminals and uses them to gain profit", Winston explained patiently. Ilsa did her best not to show that she found the explanation helpful, too.

"Still sure you don't want to include Agent Barnes?" Guerrero's tone spoke volumes. No matter what she answered, he would bring Emma in. None of that chickfight shit when Chance's life was at stake.

"And I bet he thinks he protecting us with this kind of BS", Winston snarled.

… … …

_The hacienda. _

A grand event it was, indeed. Lots of beautiful people in beautiful clothes. Caviar. Champagne. And the opportunity to buy your archenemy, take him with you and do with him whatever you want.

Who could ask for more?

Torture specialists all over the world were probably getting ready right now, polishing their gear, making sure everything was in place for all the jobs that had poured in in advance.

Araña always targeted criminals that had lost their support somehow, that had no one who would bail them out. In Joubert's case, apparently Baptiste's arrestment and transfer to Russia had set things in motion.

Everyone made their offers secretly, via mobile phone, just like in the Russian embassy. The price for Joubert climbed fast, there were several potential buyers, but at a million, everyone dropped out except Chance and Baptiste.

… … …

_San Francisco._

"The black credit card you gave Chance for emergencies has just been activated", Guerrero told Ilsa.

… … …

_The hacienda. _

They were led into a room for the formalities. A secretary ran Chance's credit card. Everything seemed to be going fine.

And then a woman walked in, somewhere between fifty and sixty years of age, completely dressed in black. Matching the black spider she was carrying with her in what looked like an expensive, elaborate… canning jar.

Araña. She must have been beautiful once, before a life of crime and too many cosmetic surgeries turned her face into a hard, leathery mask.

Now, Chance was afraid of banana spiders, but that doesn't mean he was relaxed around black widows.

"I see Rosemary is attracting your attention", Araña stated, skipping the introductions. "Beautiful exemplar, isn't she? The common notion that black widow spiders eat their partner after mating is not true, however. But very often the mate receives bite marks. To avoid dying, he pinches off the bitten part of his body before fleeing. Thus the lady leaves a lifelong mark on him. Very sympathetic creatures…" Araña smiled broadly at Chance.

"Did you know Mr. Tony Bevilacqua was attending the party, too? He has made a very generous offer for _you_ and I figured, where one man is willing to pay such an enormous price, there might be others as well. And I'm sure we'll find a new home for your companion, too…" She nodded in the direction of Baptiste.

"I'm sorry, but I don't think we can stick around for that." With one swift motion Chance kicked the jar out of Araña's hand while Baptiste grabbed the secretary and tossed her in the direction of the incoming guards.

"There's a swimming pool underneath the window!", he yelled.

They both jumped.

Araña looked at the empty window sill... and started laughing. "Go and rescue them before my boys have an early dinner", she told the guards who were slowly getting on their feet again.

"It _looked_ like a swimming-pool!", Baptiste told Chance as they stood perfectly still on a very small artificial island in the middle of a large crocodile compound, populated with half a dozen, well, crocodiles.

Dripping wet, they were brought to the cell of the Old Man. He took his time to take in their appearance, the ruined evening clothes, the scratches from the fight with the guards…

"Do I even want to know?"


	33. Chapter 33

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_San Francisco._

"Guerrero!" They all rushed into the conference room, where Sergej had kept working on the vanished website. "Look at this!"

The screen wasn't black anymore.

_"Three assassins, one price? Special offer_?", Ames read, frowning.

"Does that mean what I think it does?", Ilsa quietly asked after a moment of letting things sink in.

Winston took a deep breath, nodding slowly. "Their plan went south."

Guerrero sent Emma a text message.

… … …

_The cell. _

"What the hell are you doing here?" The Old Man was in surprisingly good health, considering that he had spent months in incarceration. It made sense, however. Torture is a lot more fun if the victim is healthy and Araña was intent on keeping her customers happy.

"Rescuing you", Chance stated the obvious. "No need to thank us, though." He started undressing to change into the dry clothes Araña's guards had thrown into the cell with them.

"What for? You're locked up in a cell _with me_!" Joubert turned towards Baptiste: "One of his "plans"?"

"It was actually my fault that…" Baptiste still hadn't started changing.

"Will you stop doing that?" Chance shrugged into a grayish t-shirt. "One of _my_ enemies spotted me at the party and blew our cover."

The Old Man threw Baptiste the dry clothes. "How fast can you disappear from here again?"

Well, apparently he was in good _physical_ health.

… … …

_San Francisco. _

"I'm going to pose as a rich buyer", Ilsa insisted.

"Yeah, because that worked so well the first time around." Emma opened another window on the computer screen and showed them even more plans of Araña's hacienda. "I say we bring in the CIA. They've been after Araña for ages and now that she's harboring criminals from all over the world…"

"We don't know what went wrong with Chance's Plan! Maybe the rich buyer part worked perfectly! If we, on the other hand, pull an _Aunt Linda_…" Ilsa unnecessarily stressed the phrase "… we risk Chance's freedom. The CIA might arrest him as well."

"I'll be there. I'll make sure they don't touch him." Emma was getting belligerent.

So was Ilsa.

"You've used Chance to boost your career before. His presence at the airport in connection with the hostage situation was risky, but you didn't waste a single thought on it!"

"This is different! Chance…"

Winston groaned, rubbing his forehead, the word "messy" written all over his face. Guerrero looked as if he was considering going for his gun.

"Hello-o-o-o!" Ames made huge waving gestures with her arms. "I don't want to be disrespectful or anything…" this was directed at Ilsa "...but this catfighting girly sh...stuff… is even getting on my nerves and I _am_ a girl. How do we get Chance out of this?"

… … …

_The cell. _

"I've heard about people going round the bend in solitary confinement. I think I've even seen that on Law & Order once…"

"Junior, cut the crap. Immediately."

"Excuse me, but when you said " How fast can _you _disappear from here again?" it sounded like you were planning to stick around a little longer…" Chance gave Baptiste a second towel that had been amongst his dry clothes.

The Old Man's face became unreadable. "You understood correctly."

For a long moment silence reigned.

Chance and Baptiste exchanged glances.

Speaking glances.

That didn't escape Joubert's notice.

He slowly started moving backwards. "Don't you dare think you can knock me unconscious, break out of here and drag me with you like one of Junior's pathetic clients!"

Chance and Baptiste would have exchanged more speaking glances, but with Joubert, you've got to act fast.

They gradually advanced towards him.

… … …

_San Francisco. _

"We'll let the CIA handle this", Guerrero stated, his tone making it very clear that this decision was final. For once he and Winston were in total agreement, a fact that filled both of them with dismay.

Chance would _so_ have to explain all of this.

Ilsa bit her lip at Guerrero's announcement. She knew they only wanted to protect her, but there was nothing endearing about it. They wanted to protect her because they thought she couldn't handle the situation.

… … …

_The cell. _

"This will only hurt for a couple of seconds", Chance told the Old Man.

"I can get out of here alone and I will get out of here alone. I neither need nor want you two involved!"

Baptiste looked hurt. Chance didn't care. "Do you want to fight this out or are you going to turn around voluntarily so I can coldcock you and Baptiste and I can pull a Second Steven in peace?"

"You don't need a Second Steven. I've got keys for most doors of this place, including the cell door."

Just when you think nothing can surprise you anymore.

"You've really lost your mind in here, haven't you?" Baptiste' expression changed from hurt to worried.

"If you've got all the keys, then why in the world are you still sitting here?" Chance spoke very slowly, like to a child.

A dumb child.

… … …

_San _Francisco_. _

"Just to make one thing clear, Emma", Guerrero quietly told her as the others got their stuff ready. "Don't even think of pulling any kind of funny stunt that would boost your career. Believe me, you'd regret it."

Emma gave him the coldest look she was capable of. "While I would have no problem whatsoever locking you away, Chance is a different story. He's a changed man and that deserves support."

"Yeah, and you'd never give Ilsa the opportunity to ride to Chance's rescue with all her money and influence, would you?", Ames commented silently, following the conversation through lip reading.

… … …

_The cell._

"Araña possesses something that's of great value to me. A couple of papers in a red envelope. She keeps it in a safe behind a painting in her office. When I first arrived here, she showed it to me. I've got tons of keys for this place, but I'm still not sure I've got the right one for the safe. I've got no equipment here to crack it, I need that key." The Old Man loosened a brick from the wall and showed them a collection of keys hidden in the small space behind. "They don't use electronic locks here because of the humidity."

"How in the world did you…?"

Footsteps approached. Joubert quickly put the brick back in place. A guard opened the door and brought them something that was probably meant as dinner. While the door was open, a rat scuttled into the room, holding something gleaming between its teeth. It quickly disappeared underneath Joubert's bed.

Chance blinked a couple of times.

"You trained a rat to steal keys?"

"Had a lot of time on my hands." The Old Man gave the rat a generous piece of dinner. "So, you see I'm doing very well here."

He stroked the rat's fur.

"Now leave."

_**A/N: Thank you, catchingfire, for taking the time to leave a comment, it means a lot to me! And also thank you to niagaraweasel and all her plotting help!**_


	34. Chapter 34

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_The hacienda. _

They made their move in the dead of night.

Or, more correctly, Chance decided that they would make their move in the dead of night.

"Junior, what the hell…?" The Old Man switched on the lamp on the makeshift nightstand by his plank bed. Its dim light revealed what Joubert so far had only vaguely guessed from the pressing sensation against his skin.

A strap of cloth connected him and Baptiste who had slept on the floor right next to him.

"Don't pull at it", Chance said quietly. "You don't want to compromise your circulation. It's a grapevine knot, very hard to untie under the best of circumstances."

Baptiste snorted and it almost sounded like suppressed laughter. Years ago, following a tiny little incident with a certain six legged additive to his breakfast cereals, Guerrero had tied Junior to the bottom of a tub with a grapevine knot and turned on the faucet. If anyone knew how difficult these things were to untie, it was him.

"You get him out of here, I get the envelope from Araña's safe if any of the keys fit", Chance told Baptiste. "If not, we'll leave without it." This was directed at the Old Man who shook his head immediately and with emphasis:

"Not an option, Junior."

"It's not that you have much of a choice, have you?" Baptiste slightly tugged at the strap, reminding Joubert of his limited range.

Joubert rolled his eyes – they had once already done something like that to him, more years ago than he cared to remember. He saw Baptiste's face and knew he remembered it, too.

"Try it another time. Make her think she's safe and strike again. You used to do that all the time", Chance shrugged.

Both the Old Man's and Baptiste's faces grew dark. Yeah, _used to_. _Before _you_ left_.

Maybe Chance didn't see it or he didn't want to see it, in any case he didn't address it. Instead he went over to the wall, removed the loose brick and got the keys out.

"We should get moving."

"Wait a sec…" Joubert bent over, looked under his bed and started making… cooing sounds.

It took Chance and Baptiste a moment before they understood he was trying to entice the rat.

"Why don't you call it by its name?", Baptiste asked.

Joubert didn't reply.

Big mistake. He should have said something, anything. Now Baptiste was curious. And not willing to let go.

He slightly tilted his head and pulled at the strap again. "What's the rat's name, mate?"

This was probably the first time ever Baptiste called the Old Man "mate".

Months and months in a Russian prison had left a certain effect on him after all...

… … …

_Ilsa's jet on an airfield in the South American jungle. _

"So the CIA doesn't know we're here?", Ames asked.

"According to Emma, no. She'll feed them some BS story about Chance being her undercover agent, make sure they leave him in her custody and then bring him here", Winston replied, trying to get visuals from the jet's newly installed surveillance cameras.

"I'm not sure Chance will agree with Baptiste and this Joubert being arrested…", Ilsa mused. "Otherwise he'd probably sought Agent Barnes' help from the very beginning."

"That's why Guerrero is with Emma at the hacienda. He'll keep Chance in check." Winston abruptly spun around. "Whoa, what was that?"

Ames rushed to one of the jet's windows. "An airplane just overflew us. What if that was the CIA's jet?"

"Then they know we're here…" Winston bit his lip.

… … …

_CIA jet._

Guerrero threw Emma an angry glance as they crossed Ilsa's jet. Emma shrugged her shoulders, aiming at "don't worry", but whom was she fooling? This change of route was bad news. They should have never caught sight of the jet.

"Maybe they haven't seen", she told him.

"Hey, did you notice that private jet on that airfield?", a CIA agent asked his colleague.

Guerrero pulled out his mobile and sent Winston a text message.

… … …

_The hacienda. _

"Now that's typical!" Chance hissed. "You took the rat in, dusted it up a little, fed it, then got it to do your bidding. Fitting name."

Baptiste couldn't believe it. "Listen to you whine and bitch the whole time! Ungrateful, as usual!" He turned to the Old Man. "After all he's done, he's still your favorite…"

Red envelope or not, Joubert had enough. "Let's get out of here!" He carefully tucked Junior, the rat, in the inside of his jacket.

… … …

_Araña's office. _

Finding the painting wasn't difficult. And, lo and behold, one of the keys "Junior" had collected, actually seemed to fit. Chance could hardly believe his eyes. Should everything go according to plan for a change? He hesitated before inserting the tiny key into the safe's keyhole.

His doubts were reasonable.

Did Joubert really think Araña wouldn't notice one of her most important key's missing?

She had noticed.

And she had installed certain precautions to keep her safe, well, safe.

Chance turned the tiny key, the door swung open – a cloud of mist surrounded him, moistened his face and shirt before evaporating as fast as it had appeared.

Poison? Didn't feel like poison… strange…

What Chance didn't see was that at the same time the mist had appeared a trapdoor had opened in the floor right behind him. Through a complicated mechanism, a spider was transported to the surface: Rosemary, the black widow.

Now, usually this species, like all spiders, would rather flee from than attack large moving things such as humans. Unless of course the large moving thing was sprayed with a chemical that made it aggressive…

Chance however, pondered whether to take a look at the red envelope's contents or not. Whatever it contained, it had been important enough to lure the Old Man away from chasing after his book. On the other hand, did he really want to know? What for? He was here to finally finish his business with Joubert, not to start another mess.

He took the envelope without looking at it, turned around… and found himself face to face with the spider.

At this very moment, Baptiste came into the office. "I've cut the strap; Joubert is arranging our escape…" He didn't get any further. Rosemary, startled at the appearance of yet another big moving thing, darted forward.

So did Chance.

He threw himself between Baptiste and the spider, reached out to flick it away like Ilsa had done back in the hut…

…and felt the stinging pain of a spider bite on his wrist.

… … …

_Ilsa's jet. _

"Looks like we need a distraction", Winston told Ames after glancing at Guerrero's message.

Ilsa hardly noticed what the two were getting ready to. She was wrapped up in her own thoughts. Why had Chance gone to rescue this Joubert in the first place? From all she knew they were mortal enemies. And what about this Baptiste? She tried to concentrate on what little she knew about him from the rescue of her friend.

Slowly, very slowly, it dawned on her.

Winston and Ames started dismantling the grenade launcher.


	35. Chapter 35

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_The hacienda. _

"They're not here! None of them!" Emma sank on the desk of what they guessed was Araña's office. Outside the CIA agents were tearing the place apart, arresting all the criminals Araña hadn't managed to auction off.

"Don't move", Guerrero said softly.

Working with Guerrero on the Dean Robinson problem had taught Emma to freeze when he spoke like that. Next thing she knew he somehow unsnapped his belt, revealing two sharp blades. Before she could say anything, could even blink, he threw one of these blades in her direction.

With a frightening "thunk" sound, the weapon got stuck in the wooden desktop, after neatly cutting a black spider right next to her left thigh in two equal halves.

Emma stared at the animal. She hadn't even noticed its presence. "Is that what I think it is?"

"Black widow." Guerrero retrieved his blade and reattached it to his belt. "Fleeing northwards makes the most sense. Let's get out of here before one of your CIA buddies decides to tag along."

… … …

_The hut. _

Junior's condition hadn't worsened in the past few hours, something both Baptiste and the Old Man had counted on. Black widow bites are very dangerous for children, elderly people or persons of a somehow weakened condition. People as fit as Chance had to endure rather unpleasant poisoning symptoms, but usually got back on their feet even without antidote.

"Another few hours and we can try the donkeys after all", Joubert mused.

Suddenly the silence in the hut, only interrupted by Chance's ragged breathing, became almost palpable.

"So you've made it out of Russia on your own…", the Old Man slowly began.

Baptiste grimaced. "Had to. The Crane was after me."

A tiny flicker in the Old Man's eyes.

_The Crane_, one of the world's most dangerous assassins…

The flicker was all Baptiste needed to see.

Concern…

He fought not to break into a broad smile.

"You offed him?" Under normal circumstances Joubert would have poured them both a drink now.

Baptiste averted his eyes, rested them on Chance.

"Oh no, not you, too…", the Old Man groaned.

… … …

_Ilsa's jet. _

Winston and Ames had gone to lure the CIA's attention away from Ilsa's jet. Of course they had left Ilsa behind.

And, in a nice twist of coincidence, also Winston's cell phone…

Maybe he hadn't noticed it lying among the remnants of the dismantled grenade launcher. Ilsa, however, was very surprised to hear a signal coming from the debris. Not too surprised, though, to keep her from reading the message.

It was from Guerrero, in Guerrero-style shortness: _Chance. 51°30'26"N 0°07'39"W _

Coordinates.

Ilsa used her smartphone to match them with a map.

This wasn't far from the airfield!

She tried to reach Ames but couldn't get hold of her. She and Winston were probably in the middle of something right now. She hesitated. Should she? And if yes, with one of the weapons on board or better unarmed?

… … …

_The hut. _

One of the reasons people in Joubert's and Co.'s line of work refrain from showing their feelings and having deep, emotional moments (yes, the conversation between Joubert and Baptiste WAS a deeply emotional one – by their standards, definitely) is that it's distracting.

None of the two noticed the hut being approached till Chance croaked "visitors". By then, however, it was already too late, the hut's door burst open, revealing Emma pointing a gun at them, Guerrero by her side. "You are under arrest…", she began.

"They saved my life…", Chance coughed.

Guerrero understood immediately. Change of plans. Someone saves your life, you owe him. Period.

Unfortunately, Emma understood, too.

Incredibly fast – hey, she was an FBI agent after all – she wrested the gun from Guerrero's hands and pushed him forward. "Don't you dare touch your belt", she hissed at him and began again: "You are under arrest…"

Again, she didn't get far.

"Hold it." Ilsa's voice from behind, in a stance she hoped resembled Chance's or Winston's and made it clear that she meant business.

"You've got to be kidding me…", Emma groaned.

Guerrero stepped past her, walked over to Ilsa, discreetly released her gun's safety catch, took Emma's weapon and unceremoniously knocked her unconscious.

… … …

_Ilsa's jet. _

Chance's eyes were shut. There was still a little bit of sweat on his forehead, but he was breathing calmly.

"I'd really like to shake him awake and give him a piece of my mind regarding his little trip to the jungle…" Ilsa told Guerrero. "But…" She took a wet cloth and wiped Chance's forehead.

"Yeah, his favorite route of escape… Getting himself injured so that nobody dares confronting him…"

"Baptiste and his old boss are gone?"

Guerrero nodded. "For now, yes."

"I think Chance wanted to put an end to his relationship with them. Had he killed one or both he'd started a new cycle of violence. Same, had he had them arrested. Instead he decided to go through with his nobody deserves to die-attitude and form some kind of truce with them. It's pretty safe to say they all don't want to see each other ever again."

Somewhere in the back of his hazy mind Chance realized with surprise that Ilsa had deciphered his actions perfectly. Guerrero, however, saw that Chance was still wearing Baptiste's watch.

… … …

_The CIA jet. _

Emma Barnes was fuming. Not only had the CIA agents had a good laugh at her expense when they found her unconscious on board, more importantly her prisoners had escaped.

Again.

"I'm going to make you pay for this, Guerrero", she quietly hissed.


	36. bells and candles

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_**~ bells and candles ~**_

_The warehouse. _

The ringing of his cell phone woke Chance from deep slumber. He opened his eyes, only to close them again almost immediately.

Oh boy, the sunlight was bright this morning…

The beginnings of what felt like a major headache sent him back into the sheets, but his phone wouldn't stop ringing. He groped around and thankfully found it right on the nightstand. At least no need to get up.

He couldn't remember placing it there, though. On the other hand, he couldn't remember much about last night anyway. He had had a couple of drinks with Winston and Guerrero, that much he knew. But enough drinks to be this hung over? Frowning, Chance answered his phone.

"Morning, dude."

Chance grunted in reply.

"Just wanted to warn you: Ilsa has cancelled all her appointments for today and according to the GPS signal of her limo she's on the way to the office. Looks like she's decided you've recuperated enough for _the talk._"

"_The talk?_" Groaning, Chance rubbed his forehead, wondering if they still had a bag of saline solution stashed somewhere.

"You used Ilsa's black emergency credit card to buy off the Old Man, remember? A million bucks for what was supposedly your archenemy…"

Damn, Guerrero was right. But the pissed-off version of her voice on this particular morning? Grating its way through his headache-clouded mind?

No way. Time to do what every hard boiled ex-assassin would do in his situation.

Turn tail and run.

Chance switched off his phone, rolled out of bed and put on the first clothes he came across on the floor. Dizzy, his vision swimming, he made his way to the back of the warehouse. Ilsa would surely use the main elevator and he wasn't going to risk running into her in the lobby. He would take the freight elevator and pay Guerrero a visit. He'd surely have a spare saline solution bag. Judging from his friend's voice and his early morning activities of hacking Ilsa's smartphone, he had probably had one for breakfast.

The faint signal of the main elevator arriving on the office's floor told Chance he had made the right decision. Quickly he disappeared into the freight elevator and pressed the down button. Ten seconds later he was well on his way to a peaceful morning with a cup of coffee and an IV bag in one of Guerrero's hideouts.

Then the elevator stopped. Gave a slight jolt. Stopped again.

Chance cursed and pushed the down button vehemently. Nothing.

The up button, however, worked.

Predictably, Ilsa was waiting on the other side as the doors slid open.

"Mr. Chance. Good to see you. I was wondering if we could have a little chat…" She hesitated, taking in his rather crumpled appearance. "Are you okay? You look horrible." She stepped into the elevator, reaching out for him, seemingly to assist him.

At the very last second, Chance noticed something metallic gleaming in her hands.

Now, hung over or not, his instincts were still working. A bit slower than usual, maybe, but still way too fast for Ilsa. He had her handcuffed in the blink of an eye. "Oh come on, seriously?"

"You're hurting me!" She made a pained grimace and pulled at the cuffs.

Causing her pain was definitely the last thing he wanted. Maybe the cuffs were too tight. There was always a bobby pin attached somewhere to his clothes. He had it out in no time and unlocked the first cuff… only to receive a shove from Ilsa that temporarily unbalanced him. She darted forward, pushed him to the ground, grabbed his wrist and closed the only just unlocked cuff around it.

Great, now they were chained together.

As said above, hurting her was definitely the last thing he wanted and thus he reacted a lot more restrainedly and carefully than if someone else, Guerrero for example, had attacked him.

"Ilsa, what the hell are you doing?" He flipped her over and pinned her to the floor. In the struggle he had lost the bobby pin. Fantastic, now he had to drag her to the main part of the office to get another one. Hopefully Ames or Winston weren't in yet.

"Making sure you don't run off!", Ilsa grunted. "We need to talk." She arched upwards and tried to kick him.

To prevent her from hurting herself, Chance had to give her more room which she immediately took advantage of. She brought up a knee and rolled over. To make sure she didn't break anything, Chance had to roll with her. Together they bowled out of the elevator.

"Ilsa! Stop it!"

But she had only just gotten started.

Chance was just about to pin her again when he once more saw something gleam in her hands.

"A second pair of handcuffs? Are you kidding me?"

In reply, Ilsa lunged at him, he caught her in his arms, they got up, stumbled, lost balance, crashed to the floor, rolled over… and somewhere in the process Ilsa managed to get one cuff of the second pair of handcuffs around Chance's free wrist and the other one around her left foot. They were completely entangled.

Suddenly there was movement in the shadows. Guerrero and Winston came out of the dark corner where they had been hiding.

"Hey dude", Guerrero greeted Chance.

"What the hell…?"

"We need to talk to you about certain incidents of late, namely you going off on your own with a certain Baptiste of all people, to rescue a certain old boss, of all people…" Winston smirked at him.

"Didn't want to sedate you again and neither of us was too keen on a broken nose." Guerrero bent down to take a look at the snarled up limbs and chains. "Congrats, boss. You've pulled it off."

"Told you so", Ilsa answered, voice muffled because she was lying face down, twisted in an awkward angle.

Winston unlocked the cuffs that were holding Ilsa in place and helped her to her feet. "Don't worry, we've got an IV bag ready that'll drive the bad headache away in no time at all. Nothing to distract you from having to listen to us."

At this very moment, the main elevator signaled.

"Hellooo? Someone here? I really don't want to bother, but…"

Winston slapped his forehead, Guerrero turned his eyes heavenward and Ilsa groaned.

Chance, however, rolled on his back and started laughing.

"You're welcome, Harry…"


	37. Chapter 37

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_The office._

"Golden Gate Bridge."

"Too windy", Ilsa and Ames vetoed Winston's suggestion in unison.

"Hyde Street Pier?"

"Too many people to keep an eye on", Guerrero objected.

"Coit Tower?"

Chance weighed his head. "Could work. But not up on the tower. Too little room to maneuver. Down by the Columbus statue?"

"Well, it all started with a statue…" Ames agreed.

"And since they're about to embark on a journey into the unknown…", Winston added.

"Never knew you joined the Dead Poets Society, dude…"

"Wiseass. It's not that you contributed anything useful to the discussion so far…"

"Grenade launcher, Chance?", Guerrero asked, whipping out a list.

"Bit of an overkill, hm? But pack the flamethrower, just in case …"

Guerrero scratched one item off the list.

… … …

_Pioneer Park._

"Okay, Harry, relax. We'll make sure nothing interferes, all you have to do is stick to the plan", Chance told Harry via earpiece in his most calming voice.

"Easier said than done! My life is at stake here! If this goes wrong…" Harry started pacing around the statue.

"Could you be any more dramatic?" Winston's voice.

"Excuse me, but this is important! Have you ever been in a situation like this?" Harry rounded the statue for the third time in less than a minute.

"Actually I have. And it was it going right that ruined…"

"Mr. Winston! I think Harry can do without that particular information right now." They had left Ilsa in the van to monitor the visuals of the cams they had installed.

"Dude, stop circling the statue. You'll leave a trail in the concrete."

"She's late." Harry pulled out a giant handkerchief and wiped his forehead.

"No, she isn't." Ames sounded excited. "That figure in the distance, that's her, I'm sure." She quickly disappeared behind a tree but kept following the approaching woman with her binoculars.

"I'm sorry I'm late, darling", Nelly greeted Harry and squeezed his arms. "But my sty got really bad this morning and I had to see a doctor. He prescribed me something I reacted allergic to, thus the rash around the corners of my mouth and on the cheeks. I went to another doctor, she prescribed me something different for the sty and ointment against the rash. Now I'm feeling slightly nauseous…"

"You need to get her mind off her troubles. Tell her something nice", Ames advised.

"You're more beautiful than ever", Harry blurted out.

"Darling, I'm looking like elephant woman and you're seeing that as an improvement to my usual appearance?"

In his ears, Harry could hear the entire team groan.

"I love you, no matter what", Harry stammered.

"Everything okay? Someone tried to kill you again?" Nelly touched his forehead, worry lines on her face.

"Winston, check six", Guerrero spoke up. "There's a free running dog, dragging its leash behind. We can't have a dog-seeking owner barging in."

Winston hurried to prevent the dog from getting too close to the statue.

"There's a couple approaching from the west, with two bratty looking children in tow", Ilsa warned.

"I'll take care of them." Chance headed off west. For eventualities like these they had bought several tickets for the Exploratorium. Chance would tell them some vaguely believable story about how he had come across these tickets but his family had no time and thus would they maybe…?

"There's another couple approaching, just man and woman", Ames observed.

"I can see them, too", Ilsa confirmed. "Guerrero, maybe you should take care of them."

"Ames is closer."

"Yes, but they look like they fought. She's throwing her hair around and he's kicking stones out of his way. It's not a good idea to bring a beautiful stranger in now. We don't want them to break into a full-fledged shouting match within hearing distance, do we?"

"Copy that." For this eventuality, Ilsa had reserved tables at several high-end restaurants. Guerrero would tell them a vaguely believable story about his fiancée having no time, despite him having waited for a year to get a reservation, maybe they would…?

Somewhere northwards they could hear a dog bark and Winston was cursing via earpiece, but as long as he stayed away from the statue…

Chance returned just in time to see Nelly touch Harry's forehead in a caring gesture. "It's now or never, Harry…"

Harry stood frozen like the Christopher Columbus statue they had chosen as the meeting point.

"You can do it, Harry!", Ames spurred him on.

"Hey, are you trying to steal my dog?", a stranger's voice, probably belonging to an elderly woman, could be faintly heard via earpiece.

"Ames is right, you can do it and you'll do great." Ilsa's voice, in best human resources encouragement fashion.

Winston's earpiece transported something that sounded like muffled thumping, the sound an umbrella makes when it hits the back of a huge ex-cop repeatedly. "I don't want to put anyone under pressure here, but could we maybe finish this thing, FAST?"

"Harry. _On your knees_. Now." Guerrero's voice, in best human torture encouragement fashion.

Harry dropped to his knees and started fumbling in his pockets.

"We should have superglued the ring to his hand", Winston snarled, puffing from running away from the old lady.

"Told you so, dude…"

"You suggested _stapling _it to his hand…"

Harry finally got hold of the box and – lo and behold! – managed to snap it open without sending the ring rolling down the gutter or having it snatched away by a magpie or something.

Sounds unlikely? Hey, we're talking _Harry_ here. There's a reason Guerrero brought his long-distance rifle.

"You're doing fine, Harry. Now, just as we practiced, nothing complicated, just spill it out." Ames voice, very slowly, very soothing.

Harry took a deep breath.

"Nelly, will you marry me?"


	38. Chapter 38

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_The warehouse._

In the few months of working with Chance and his team, Ilsa had been met with a couple of disturbing sights, her least favorite being Chance in protective clothing, Guerrero aiming at him with a shotgun and her sister-in-law staring at both of them with thinly veiled horror.

The sight that presented itself to her now, however, wasn't far off: Harry. In nothing but underwear. Snoring deeply on the sofa in the lounge.

"Weren't you supposed to have a stag night with your friend tonight?", she asked Chance who was coming out of the kitchen area, carrying what looked like a gray suit, a white shirt and a tie.

She had hoped for a peaceful night in the office, with nothing but her, the team's expense accounts and a glass of Sauvignon blanc. Obviously it was not meant to be. Sigh.

"Oh, we are. We just figured it would be more practical if we… _um_… arranged things a little more than usual…", Winston explained, coming out of the kitchen, too, with a tray full of strange items such as a cigar, lipstick, handcuffs, a spray bottle and a pink thong. "The tumble dryer just finished its cycle. Looks like it was a good idea to put the shoes in a bag with gravel. Very believable scratch marks."

Chance spread out the clothes on the floor and started trampling and hopping around on them. Then he and Winston picked up the shirt and tore at its sleeves in a playful tug war till it ripped a little in the back. They repeated the procedure with the trousers.

Before Ilsa could ask what in the world they were doing, a horrible smell met her nose. Ames came out of the kitchen with a pot, unmistakably the source of the stench. "I think it's perfect now."

"This reeks like an Irish pub after St. Patrick's Day", Ilsa exclaimed, holding her nose.

"As I said, it's perfect!", Ames replied cheerfully and filled some of the thin sludge into the spray bottle. While Winston burned holes into shirt and suit jacket with the cigar, Chance tore off a couple of buttons. Then he stuffed the handcuffs and the thong into the suit's pockets. Ames put on the lipstick and planted a kiss on the collar of the shirt. "Now everyone step back!" She sprayed the clothes with the sludge.

Ilsa could nothing but stare at them. "You're going to pretend he had a wild bachelor party while instead he spent the night in a drug-induced slumber on our sofa?"

"Definitely safer for all of us", Guerrero stated, joining the others in the lounge.

"Why did you bring your tackle box?", Ilsa asked, highly alarmed.

"As you said, wild night out…" Guerrero walked over to sleeping Harry, put on rubber gloves, opened his box and took out a variety of sandpaper.

"You're going to injure him on purpose?"

"Relax, Ilsa. We just roughen him up a little. He'll be proud of the marks", Chance tried to placate her.

Guerrero worked methodically and effectively. Harry's hands soon looked as if he had been in a fist fight.

"Time for the present?", Chance asked him when he was done.

Guerrero nodded. "Time for the present." He got up and removed his glasses.

Ilsa couldn't believe her eyes. "One moment, you're not going to…?"

Chance punched Guerrero straight in the face. His nose started bleeding. He walked over to the clothes and left a couple of blood spots on the shirt.

"Harry will be so proud of having given _you_, of all people, a black eye, he'll probably print it on a shirt", Winston told Guerrero.

"Least I don't have to spend money on a toaster."

Before Ilsa could put any of her objections into words, the elevator signaled. The doors slid open and revealed Nelly.

She took one look at her husband-to-be, another one at the clothes on the floor, breathed in a whiff of the pub stench and smiled. "You're faking his bachelor party? I knew he would be safe with you." Then she turned to Ilsa. "Could I have a word with you?"

As Ilsa led her into her office, they could hear Ames complaining: "I'm _so not_ going to dress him."

"How shall I call you?", Ilsa asked her visitor as they sat down. "Harry calls you Nelly, so I assume you're still going by that name?"

"I prefer "Nelly", but I react on Fran, too. The people at the farm call me "Frelly" – as long as you refrain from that, everything is fine."

"So you're in contact with the farm again?" Ilsa studied Nelly discreetly. Aside from the rash on her face, she looked a lot better than last time they had met. Not haunted anymore. The deep shadows underneath her eyes were gone.

"In fact I'd like to celebrate my wedding there." Nelly hesitated. "I grew up there, it's my home…. But I also want my biological family to take part, especially the aunt that raised me. Aunt Estelle is a wonderful person, she's just a bit… how shall I put that… she's…a bit stiff… As it turned out, I'm a descendant of one of the old upper class families in the Hamptons. My mother went a bit astray with my father who was a descendant of one of the not so upper class families in Detroit…."

She took a deep breath.

"Bringing my real family and my farm family together requires more skills than a regular wedding planner would have. I'd like to hire your team to organize my wedding."

For the umpteenth time that day, Ilsa mouth dropped open. But not for long. This sounded – finally! – like a job without near death experiences, explosions, high altitude stunts and lots of work for the Foundation's lawyers in the aftermath.

"We'll be happy to help", she smiled.

"And there's the additional problem of Harry's only relation, a brother... we'd really like him to be Harry's best man. It would mean a lot to him..."

Nelly sheepishly smiled back at Ilsa.

"...unfortunately he's currently in prison…"

Job without dangerous stunts, huh?


	39. Chapter 39

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_Ilsa's limousine._

Ilsa had offered to fly her in, but Nelly's aunt had insisted on using her own jet.

"I told Francesca she could get married everywhere, but she insisted on _this location_."

In the distance, the farm's premises slowly became visible.

The way Estelle Hamilton said "this location" didn't leave much room for interpretation.

"It's a very picturesque place", Ilsa replied.

She was nervous.

Clarence, who was in charge today, had suggested a little collective outing to lure at least a couple of the farm's occupants away.

It would be hard enough to sell Estelle on what location exactly Nelly had in mind for the wedding ceremony without a clairvoyant, a Jedi, a Wicca and God knows who else running around…

… … …

_California Institution for Men, minimum security level. _

"So you came here to collect Eddie, hm…" The prison guard studied the papers that granted Harry's brother three days of furlough to attend the wedding. Winston allowed himself a relaxed smile. For once they didn't have to rely on Guerrero's forgery skills or Chance's prison break abilities – Ilsa's influence had gotten them real documents without any hassle. Well, Eddie was only in for a year anyway, small time offender, some kind of clumsy credit card fraud.

Mishaps seemed to be running in the family.

The guard approved of the documents with a nod and told one of his colleagues to get Eddie.

Winston's smile grew broader. For once things were running smoothly.

Uh-oh, Winston, don't…

The prison guard returned.

Without Eddie.

Here we go…

… … …

_A monastery in the Hamptons._

"I really think I should do the talking this time", Ames repeated for the umpteenth time.

Just to make her shut up, Guerrero finally decided to dignify her with an answer. "I've got a plan."

"If it involves your tackle box, it's not a good plan." The whole Daisy ordeal had really helped to boost her self-confidence in dealing with him.

"How can anything that involves the tackle box not be a good plan?" He raised an eyebrow.

"We're going to visit the Hamilton family priest. The _eighty years old _Hamilton family priest who baptized Nelly's mother. We can't torture him into marrying Nelly and Harry on the farm, under the – um – special circumstances there. We just can't!" Ames looked horrified at the mere thought.

"I promise I'll be gentle." As Guerrero grinned, his incisor teeth became visible. He knocked on the priest's door.

… … …

_California Institution for Men, Eddie's cell. _

The guard shook his head in disbelief. "I really don't understand this – we notified him that he would get to attend the wedding!"

"Let's all calm down", Winston said. "It's not that the Green River Killer broke out, is it? Maybe we find a way to iron this out without an internal investigation and all that hassle…"

Very good point. An investigation was the last thing any of the prison's personnel needed.

Winston looked at Eddie's cell mate. "Anything _you'd_ like to share with us?"

The pale, scrawny man shrugged. "Depends on what I get in return."

Winston thought about Ilsa's deep pockets and hoped she'd understand.

"Spit it out."

"Six months more in here."

Just when you think you've heard it all.

… … …

_The farm. _

When Ilsa and Estelle arrived at the farm, Nicole awaited them. Ilsa let out a sigh of relief. Anarchist or not, Nicole at least passed as normal. Ilsa's relief didn't last long, however.

Nicole led them to the vast kitchen. The kitchen's huge panorama windows allowed a view of the farm's private graveyard, where the deceased members of the community found their final rest. The second she crossed the threshold Nicole froze, stared outside, turned around and tried to usher them out of the room again, but it was too late. Estelle had keen eyes.

"What are these people doing on that graveyard?"

Moira, in a flowing green dress, barefooted, was walking among the headstones, swinging something that looked like a flexible iron rod with a huge crystal on its tip. A man in a white lab coat – this had to be the newest addition to the community, Nelly had referred to him as "a scientist" – holding antennas in both hands, apparently followed her instructions, moved here and there, back and forth. Every now and then they planted something that looked like silver knitting needles into the ground.

"They're adjusting the energy field for the wedding", Nicole explained. Ilsa made hectic gestures for her to shut up, but it was too late.

"Why out there?", Estelle asked, very warily.

"Because Frelly wants to get married on the graveyard", Nicole said as if it was the most normal thing in the world.

Estelle almost did a backflip.

… … …

_California Institution for Men, Eddie's cell. _

The prison guard reluctantly nodded in agreement. "That should be doable. Now where is Eddie?"

"Eddie didn't think that he would be allowed to attend his brother's wedding, so he figured out a way to get there anyway… he hired Hard Rock Hogger to break him out of here. When he found out that he would get a furlough, he tried to cancel the whole thing. Hard Rock didn't take kindly to that… he came to Eddie and told him he'd break out whether he wanted to or not. Then he knocked him unconscious and dragged him off…"

"And you didn't inform us?" The guard couldn't believe it."That should definitely do for six more months in here…"

"Six months less of sleeping on the street", the scrawny man replied.

… … …

_The monastery. _

A shiver was running down Ames' spine. She could neither believe her eyes nor her ears.

"Love is patient, love is kind and is not jealous; love does not brag and is not arrogant, does not act unbecomingly; it does not seek its own, is not provoked, does not take into account a wrong suffered, does not rejoice in unrighteousness, but rejoices with the truth; bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things."

Guerrero finished reciting and looked the old priest directly in the eyes.

"If love is that flexible, do you really think the wedding ceremony, that celebrates the love of two people, would be tarnished if a couple of Wicca, Jedi, atheist and other practices are built in?"

… … …

_California Institution for Men._

They found Eddie tied up in a huge laundry bag.

"You've got to believe me, I really didn't…"

"I believe you." Winston couldn't help but laugh. "You are Harry's brother. I definitely believe you."

… … …

_The farm. _

"So many people start their marriage in a church and it ends in disaster. Nelly has already been through disaster, numerous times, first with her parents being unable to take care of her, then with their killing, then with discovering that the man she saw as her father wasn't her father but her parents' murderer. She thinks maybe if she begins her marriage in the presence of disaster, right by the grave of the killer who is responsible for her parents' death, things will get better from there."

Ilsa's words were well chosen and probably would have touched Estelle's heart. If not, well, if not, at this very moment, the bus with the other members of the community had arrived. One by one out they came: The Jedi, the Wicca… you know the drill…

They were singing. At the top of their lungs. Apparently the song was the result of a democratic voting with inconclusive result: The text was from White Army, Black Baron, except for the refrain, that was from some church song. The melody was from the Last Unicorn.

Believe me, you don't even want to know how that sounded…

Out on the graveyard, the scientist and Moira were setting up some kind of pyramid construction.

"I don't think I should attend this wedding after all", Estelle told Ilsa. "This is not the Francesca anymore that I knew as a small child. She has moved on and as happy as I am that she's still alive, maybe it's better for all of us if I accept that and move on, too."

Ilsa took a deep breath. "Well, in that case..."


	40. Chapter 40

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_The farm._

"Sometimes it's all in the way you say it."

A lesson, learned from Guerrero. Ilsa had taken it to heart.

"Well, in that case…", she repeated for emphasis.

"Do not let her know that celebrating without her is not an option. Do not let her know how important her participation is."

More useful Guerrero lessons.

"Make it clear that you're damn serious."

She could actually hear his voice.

"Start with breaking her thumbs and then work your way down to the kneecaps."

Okay, scratch the last part, but the rest was right on. Ilsa put on her strictest no nonsense face.

"You might want to remove yourself from Nelly's life, but Nelly is intent to incorporate the life and family that was denied to her into her new life as much as possible. To begin with, she's going to make several Hamilton traditions part of her wedding ceremony. She's going to get married in her grandmother's wedding gown. She's also going to use her mother's baptism candle and she'll have the traditional Hamilton wedding blessing and song recited. Do you really want the woman with the pyramid to say that blessing? Do you really want the whole community sing that song? In a most likely remodeled version?"

Estelle replied with an icy stare.

She didn't say anything for the rest of their stay at the farm. She also remained silent during the ride back to the hotel in Ilsa's limousine.

When she finally got out of the car, Ilsa wanted nothing more than to ask her what she was going to do, but asking would have indicated weakness.

Another Guerrero lesson.

She watched as Estelle stepped up the stairs to her hotel, not looking back.

The wedding was supposed to be the day after tomorrow and there were still tons of unresolved problems, one of them being that Garcia, the hardcore vegan would be in charge of the farm the day of the wedding and thus, according to farm rules, have a say in the catering. Ilsa decided she was not going to waste her time and energy on this woman who was too stubborn to understand that she should thank God or the Gods or the Force or whatever (they had had dinner at the farm) because she had her niece back after all these years instead of throwing a spanner in the works.

"If she doesn't come voluntarily, we'll use Rohypnol", she decided.

Oh boy, someone definitely spent too much time with Guerrero…

… … …

_The day before the wedding. Emma's house. _

"If this is about Guerrero again, you're wasting your time", Chance told Emma straight away. She looked as if she was up to something: Freshly applied make-up, carefully styled her, figure-hugging dress…

"You're really asking me to forget the whole disaster in South America?"

"It was my wish to let them go. It's neither Guerrero's nor Ilsa's fault. Besides that you were commended for finally nailing Araña, weren't you?" Chance wondered when he had started talking to her like that.

Was he judging her for putting an end to the BRM killer?

Seriously? He, of all people?

Or was he maybe judging her because she had simply moved on, started rebuilding her career and except for a night of crying in his arms shown no remorse whatsoever for taking a life in that awful way?

"Actually the commendation is why I asked you to come. You won't believe it, but the Washington bureau wants me back." She looked triumphant. Chance forced himself to smile.

"Congrats."

"We're a great team, you and me", she continued. "I could get you into the bureau as a consultant. We could go places together." Emma looked excited. She had spent days picturing this moment.

Chance got up.

This was not at all as she had pictured it.

"No way, Emma."

"What is keeping you here? In that shabby warehouse, running around with these people… I could get you legit papers, a new name, a new life… with me…" She let the implications hang in the air.

Chance walked out the door.

… … …

_The farm. _

"Okay, we agree – the password is "Open Sesame!". Everybody who utters these words is allowed into the barn where we'll put up the second buffet and the second wedding cake." Ilsa absent-mindedly rubbed her forehead. The caterer would probably be astounded that she was asking him to transport his food in a truck saying "Handmade hemp clothes", but considering the amount of money he was receiving, he'd hopefully be wise enough not to ask.

She was really not in the mood to answer any questions. Things were as they were, period.

"But you have to spread words among the guests that they have to eat at least one piece of Garcia's cake, too", Nicole insisted. "And not more than five people at once should file over to the barn. Any more would be suspicious…."

Ilsa nodded and moved on to the next problem on the list. "The transportation issue… the guests are still not allowed to arrive in cars because of the hole in the ozone layer?"

"Carriages aren't an option either, the exploitation of any kind of animals was strictly vetoed by several community members…"

"If the guests parked on the other side of the hill and mastered the last part of the way by bike, would that be acceptable?"

Nicole looked at Ilsa and smiled. "You start thinking like someone who lives here!"

Ilsa wondered if somewhere in heaven Marshall was laughing right about now.

All this wedding organizing was bringing back memories she had thought long lost – scenes from her own wedding, small shreds of memories she hadn't remembered in years.

She looked outside and a strange sight caught her eyes. She could barely make out the figure in the rapidly sinking sun.

"What's the matter with Chantrelle?", she asked Nicole.

Nicole rolled her eyes. "Trust me, you really don't want to know."

… … …

_The farm, outside. _

Night was almost breaking when Chance arrived at the farm. Theoretically he was supposed to watch over Harry and make sure he didn't get into trouble the day before his wedding, but Nelly had picked up on his rather upset mood and sent him to the farm. "Nothing takes your mind off your troubles faster…", she had told him.

Oh how right she was.

He almost ran over Chantrelle who was apparently heading for the small forest behind the farm. Chance got out of the car to make sure she was alright. "Hey, what's the matter with…" He let his sentence trail off. She looked terribly sad and her eyes were puffy.

"I'd really like to conduct a purifying rite to clear the energy field around the farm for Frelly's wedding. But nobody seems to be interested."

Talk about taking your mind off troubles…

Ten minutes later they were on a clearing in the forest. Chantrelle had lit a fire in its center. "Watch out for the common ragweed", she told Chance. It can cause skin rashes." All around them the night was falling quickly.

She started to undress and so did Chance after a moment of hesitation.

The fire's golden glow enhanced the muscles on Chance's naked body, illuminated his broad chest and put interesting highlights on the small sweaty patches on his buttocks.

A sight that would've surely spiraled most women into temporarily incoherency.

Chantrelle, however, didn't see. She was concentrated on the words of her chant, on the twinkling stars that dotted the night sky on the warmth of the fire that lit up her naked body and made her feel in harmony with nature and life.

Chance didn't feel exactly in harmony with everything, but he was definitely feeling better. Emma had made him an offer and he hadn't taken it.

For the first time in a long while not because he felt he didn't deserve it but because he felt _she_ didn't deserve it.

What a strange new thought.


	41. Chapter 41

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_The farm. The day of the wedding. _

BOOM.

Ilsa, who had stayed the night to oversee all preparations, woke up from something that sounded like a hand grenade exploding nearby. Thanks to working with Chance and Co., she knew that sound pretty well by now.

Her eyes flew open, she jumped from the bed and dashed out of her room, almost colliding with Nicole in the corridor.

"What in the world…?"

Nicole looked puzzled.

"The explosions...?", Ilsa prompted.

"Ah, that, yes, see, it looks like we're going to have a tiny little problem, but we're already working on it."

BOOM.

Up in heaven, Ilsa was sure about that now, Marshall was sitting on a cloud and laughing his ass off. She took a deep breath.

"Maybe I'm a bit slow this morning, but what kind of wedding-related problem requires the use of explosives?"

"The weather!", Nicole replied, as if that made perfect sense. "It looks like it's going to rain."

Ilsa closed her eyes. She could actually _hear_ him laugh. "How exactly are you…?"

"Moira and Chantrelle have gathered a fairly large group to perform a "sunny-but-not-too hot, a soft-breeze would be perfect"-dance up on the hill. It doesn't require getting naked, thus the rather high attendance rate. The Jedi is trying to cause a shift in the Force with a meditation session by the waterfall, the religious oriented are saying an ecumenical litany behind the barn and the scientist is shooting at the clouds with his latest invention, assisted by the atheist. Thus the noise."

Nicole smiled at her.

"Sorry to have woken you."

BOOM.

About half an hour and multiple explosions later, the sun broke through the thick layer of clouds that had covered the sky.

All around the farm relieved voices could be heard.

"It has worked!"

… … …

_The farm, later that day, on the graveyard. _

"I'm glad I didn't ask for the annulment after all", Ames whispered into Alejandro's ear as Nelly and Harry took position in front of the priest. "I trusted my initial gut feeling and for once I wasn't wrong."

He took her hand, caressed it and planted a kiss on her cheek.

Winston watched the two from three rows behind and smiled, glad Ames in the end hadn't listened to his rant about rushing into marriage. She and Alejandro looked happy and at peace with each other. He should really stop being pessimistic about everything all the time.

Chance slid into the chair next to him and gave him a lopsided smile. For a moment Winston just stared at him in surprise – he usually avoided wedding ceremonies like the plague – then his smile broadened. Chance looked somewhat different today, more relaxed than usual, not the happy-go-lucky façade he often put up, but really relaxed, as if he had made some sort of important decision.

Clarence started playing a sweet melody on his didgeridoo.

Well yeah, as sweet as it gets with a didgeridoo.

… … …

_Emma's house. _

Arrangements were already made. She had found herself a nice Washington place to stay till she had sold this catastrophe of a construction site, the flight ticket was paid, the taxi scheduled to arrive in an hour. Her San Franciscan intermezzo would be coming to an end soon.

YES!

Yes?

If she was feeling really this enthusiastic, then why was she still sitting in front of her half packed suitcase and just staring at it instead of finishing this last piece of preparation?

Emma looked around. Why had she bought this ruin in the first place? It had never become a home. Of course she knew the answer. She had hoped she and Chance could renovate it together. He looked like the type who enjoyed knocking down walls. And after a day of working they could have sat together and had a glass of red wine or two… with the sinking sun as a backdrop. As the night grew on he would have wrapped his arms around her to keep her from shivering…

Stop it, Emma. He has made his priorities very clear.

Yes, but did that mean she had to give up?

When had turning tail and running become acceptable coping mechanisms for her?

Was she really willing to let _Ilsa Pucci_, the woman who had pointed a gun at her, helped two dangerous criminals to escape AND, most importantly, ridiculed her in front of the CIA people, win?

She kicked her suitcase.

… … …

_The graveyard. _

Estelle Hamilton slid into the chair next to Ilsa. "She looks like her grandmother on her wedding day. I so envied my sister because she was the first one of us girls to get married in that dress… My great-grandmother imported it from Paris in the 19th century. We all got married in it. Francesca's mother was supposed to wear it, too, but she preferred to elope with that… that boy…, got married in jeans in Vegas… . It's unbelievable they're all gone now…"

Ilsa offered her a handkerchief and fought hard not to smile triumphantly. Guerrero had made Estelle talk to the family priest yesterday evening.

"These people raised my Francesca. They got to see her grow up while I was grieving her. You wouldn't believe how jealous I am of them."

Nelly, in her bright white, beaded gown, flowers in her hair, barefooted, suddenly turned around, her hand in Harry's hand, and locked eyes with her aunt.

Estelle nodded, slowly and deliberately and between her tears she started smiling.

In the back, Guerrero's muted cell phone suddenly lit up.

_finished working on your del_, said the message.

Chance nudged Guerrero in the ribs, wordlessly indicating with a nod of his head that he was supposed to concentrate on the ceremony.

He himself, however, wasn't exactly focused, either.

Ilsa was looking spectacular in the dark green dress she was wearing.

_**A/N: Yes, I know I said "minimal shipping" – don't worry, this won't turn into a fluffy romance thing, we're going back to the nitty gritty side of things soon. It's just that I need this heartwarming breather first, to kind of rest and recuperate a little. **_


	42. Chapter 42

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_The farm._

After the ceremony Winston and Guerrero discreetly regulated the flow of traffic to the barn, where the real buffet and cake was put up. Garcia's food, however, was not neglected. Even Aunt Estelle tried a piece of his version of a wedding cake and Harry and Nelly posed with it for the classic photo.

"There's a pigsty right around the corner", Ilsa quietly let her know as Estelle bravely chewed… and chewed… and chewed… on her wedge.

Night fell outside and the band began to play. Guerrero had chosen the music – period – as there was no agreement whatsoever achievable among the community members and their usual solution, to mix lyrics and melodies of different songs was SO NOT an option. As Nelly and Harry led the dance, a small smile stole upon his face.

He rested his eyes on the bride for a moment – _nice_ dress – then let his gaze wander to Ilsa.

Talk about nice dress.

A fact that hadn't gone unnoticed by Chance, too. He extended a hand and asked her for a dance.

"Last time we did that, you were checking me for signs of poisoning", Ilsa recalled as they slowly moved to the rhythm of the music.

"Unless you've actually eaten one of Garcia's tapas, you should be safe tonight", he smiled, blue eyes twinkling boyishly.

She rolled her eyes in reply and snorted. "Instead of dancing with you, I should…"

"I'm sorry", he cut her off.

Ilsa was so surprised, she almost tripped over her own feet, she, veteran of a million charity ball nights. "Excuse me?"

He caught her in his arms. "For the credit card thing and the running off thing and all, you know…"

Ilsa opened her mouth, then closed it again. Hesitated. "I understand", she finally said.

It was the best answer she could have given.

"Partners", Chance thought, and for the first time it sounded right.

While Guerrero was watching Ilsa and Chance, Winston had an eye on Ames and Alejandro who were dancing close by, cheek to cheek. Ames was practically glowing in his arms, and it was surely not from the non-alcoholic punch that was served. They were a pretty couple and the way he gently held her in his arms while she was leaning her forehead against his shoulder spoke of trust and harmony.

Ames was happy.

Winston, more than any other team member, knew what a hellish childhood she had had. She deserved this and he wanted to kick himself for almost talking her out of this marriage.

… … …

_Same time, San Francisco. _

Someone was unpacking his luggage in a seedy hotel room where the receptionist surely wouldn't remember him. Black trousers, black pullover, leather gloves, a syringe and a 45er … just in case.

Someone else, on the other side of the city, in a half-renovated house, was unpacking her luggage, too. No syringe, but her suitcase did contain a weapon.

Another someone in a run-down apartment somewhere in the middle between the two, was cleaning and loading his recent purchase. Another gun.

Not only just in case.

… … …

_The farm. _

Can you get drunk from a non-alcoholic punch? Moira surely looked like she was. She stumbled and swayed, bumping against people in what looked like an attempt to cross the dance floor. Ilsa, Chance and Ames were closest and hurried to her side. She looked somewhat bewildered, her pupils were blown and her skin was unnaturally pale. As soon as Ames approached her, she grabbed her wrist and pulled her close with surprising strength.

"Hey", Ames protested. Moira's fingers were entangled in the bracelet Ilsa had given her and she worried she'd break it.

"Protect your heart", Moira whispered. "It's worth it."

Ames, busy working her bracelet free, reacted with a noncommittal "mhm".

Moira didn't react at all to Ames' disinterest. She had already turned her attention to Chance. "Get up", she told him, voice hoarse and unnaturally low. "It's worth it."

"Moira? Everything okay?" Nelly came dashing towards her friend, Harry in close pursuit. Moira stood very still for a moment, statue-like, frozen in mid-movement. Then her eyes rolled inwards and she fell unconscious. Chance managed to catch her just in time.

Wow, was he busy catching ladies this evening.

"We'll take care of her." Ilsa patted Nelly's arm reassuringly as Chance picked Moira up and carried her out of the room. "She probably just needs a little rest." Then she joined Chance to show him where the clairvoyante's room was.

The party went on as if nothing happened. Most of the attendees knew about Moira and the little scenes she sometimes created.

"Her breathing rate is normal, her pulse seems okay… maybe just the excitement and the stuffy air", Chance mused as he lowered her onto her bed.

"What in the world was she talking about?" Ilsa placed a wet cloth on her forehead and Moira let out a contented sigh. It didn't look like she needed a doctor.

Chance shrugged. "No idea. She's always a bit out there, and the whole wedding thing was quite stressful…though, if stress triggered this, it should be you running around, making cryptic comments and fainting." He smiled. "You've done a great job. I would've gone crazy, organizing this sh…"

Something had caught his eye.

One of Ilsa's sleeves had ridden upwards a little as she had tucked Moira in.

"What's that rash on your skin?", Chance asked.

"Must be from Garcia's food", Ilsa mumbled and quickly covered the reddish spot, but of course he knew exactly what caused this kind of distinctive blisters.

_Ragweed. _


	43. coldly breaks the dawn

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_**~ coldly breaks the dawn ~**_

_San Francisco, FiDi, on the steps of an office building, around noon._

Ilsa's smartphone signaled. A new text message – the impromptu meeting the chairwoman of the "Make Children Smile" Foundation had asked for, was cancelled. Apparently an unforeseen emergency had come up. Ilsa didn't mind much. This would give her time to make an unexpected appearance at the warehouse.

- insert slightly evil, British accented laughter here -

She knew how much the feeling of being controlled annoyed Chance. Allowing herself a smirk, she was just about to call her driver back to pick her up again when a familiar voice called out to her: "Mrs. Pucci? Now that's a surprise!"

Ilsa turned around and immediately recognized Scotland Yard Inspector Rebecca Eddington. She had once helped her and Marshall out of a very tight spot. "Very tight" as in "life-threatening". Without Rebecca, they would have both died eight years ago at the hands of a lunatic who had believed Marshall to be his father.

Very long story, tragic ending. For the lunatic, fortunately.

"Inspector Eddington! What a pleasant surprise!" They hugged and Rebecca suggested going to a café nearby for a cup of coffee and a bit of catching-up.

"I'm so sorry you lost Marshall. What a terrible blow." Rebecca squeezed Ilsa's hand in sympathy and they shared a moment of sadness, remembering the time they had all been together. For a while the inspector had been a regular guest at the Pucci household, till all the stressful requirements of life separated them again.

"Tell me what you've been up to", Ilsa asked Rebecca to lighten the atmosphere again.

"I'm not sure if you've ever heard of the Braitch serial killer. He targeted young single mothers, killed 12 of them. Scotland Yard caught him and I was supposed to protect him from the wrath of his victims' relatives. One father was so deeply hurt and desperate, he hired a professional assassin to revenge his daughter's gruesome death. The assassin almost killed me, but I managed to protect the Braitch killer." She took a sip from the café au lait she and Ilsa had ordered.

"A short time later the Braitch killer escaped. He killed a colleague's wife and kids." She paused again. When she spoke again her voice sounded lower, hoarser. Ilsa suddenly noticed how thin she looked, how pale her face was.

"I could have saved them all, had I not been so damn dutiful."

"Oh my God, Rebecca." Now it was Ilsa's turn to squeeze her hand.

"It put everything in a different light, showed me how useless everything was, the whole silly game of right and wrong. All I would have needed to do was step aside and let the assassin do his job…" Rebecca looked up and locked eyes with Ilsa. "I kind of changed sides after that. I'm not with Scotland Yard anymore."

She took a deep breath.

"I'm sorry. I truly am."

"Sorry for what?", Ilsa asked, suddenly feeling slightly uneasy. Something was wrong.

"Sorry for poisoning you", Rebecca replied. "I've got a job tomorrow at the grand reception at the museum. Some corporate bigwig named Binham. You're the only one on the guest list who knows me from my previous life and could identify me. But don't worry, succinylcholine hits fast and brings about minimal pain. It'll be over in a minute and everybody will think it was a heart attack."

Momentarily lost for words, Ilsa stared at the woman she had once considered a friend. A cold shiver ran down her spine. "I'm sorry", she finally whispered.

Rebecca was surprised. "I don't understand, why are you…?" Something made her let the sentence trail off. A certain pressure in her chest region.

"For swapping the cups", Ilsa answered.

_Don't be ridiculous, Mr. Guerrero. _

_It's a simple precaution, boss. Always order the same the other person wants and swap the glasses. _

Practically the first lesson he ever taught her after she started working with the team. And he had been adamant about it. For weeks he had poured castor oil in her coffee/tea/what have you, till swapping glasses had become an automated habit for her.

While Rebecca still stared at her, breathing heavily by now, sweat accumulating on her forehead, Ilsa quickly wiped down both cups with a napkin.

Another Guerrero lesson.

Of course Rebecca had chosen a café where the only area under video surveillance was the register. It was the busiest hour of the day, all around them customers were piling up. The noise level was quite significant.

No one would remember her.

Rebecca was gasping for air. She could have called for help, yes, but nobody knew better than her that there was no time left to get the antidote.

So poisoning it would be.

Shaking, knees so weak, she feared they'd buckle, Ilsa got up and walked out the door.


	44. Chapter 44

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_De Young Museum, San Francisco. Early Evening. _

"Mr. Binham is texting quite a lot", Chance observed. Something of the whole situation seemed disturbingly familiar, but he couldn't quite lay a hand on it.

"I'm on it." Guerrero's voice via earpiece. This time it was his turn to sit in the van while Winston was helping out Chance keeping an eye on their client.

Who didn't exactly know he was their client.

Ilsa had tried to contact him, but this time even the mighty Pucci name hadn't opened any doors; till right before the reception at the museum Binham had been "away on private business" and apparently completely out of reach for the rest of the world. Which probably explained why Rebecca had planned on taking him out at this rather public occasion instead of choosing a less risky venue.

"You grab that champagne glass any tighter, it'll break", Chance whispered in Ilsa's ear, his fingertips brushing a loose strand of hair away, his breath ghosting over her skin. He was posing as her date, this gesture of intimacy was perfect to feed the image of a couple in love.

Ilsa swallowed visibly and put the empty glass on a waiter's tray. Chance softly rested his hand on the small of her back. "Relax", he told her.

The look she gave him spoke volumes.

He nodded. "I know you're rattled. But Mr. Binham can't wait for you to take a breather and process what happened first. He needs our help now."

Of course she knew he was right. But less than 24 hours ago a friend (!) had tried to kill (!) her (!) but instead she (!), Ilsa Pucci, though unwittingly – had killed (!) that friend (!). Oh God, she wanted to curl up in some corner, close her eyes and not open them for a week. How in the world did Chance manage to deal with this kind of thing practically on an everyday basis?

Chance could see the despair in her eyes. She was still shell shocked. They should have left her at home, they really should have, but how else to get access to the reception if not through her? In her company he could roam the place freely without drawing attention.

And this was what she wanted, wasn't it? This was what she had fought for so fiercely with the Foundation's board. He felt sorry for her, yes, but this kind of thing came with the territory.

Oh boy, was it the whole ordeal with Emma that had made him so angry regarding the womenfolk in his life? He remembered her telling she understood the reasons for his solitary trip to South America. She didn't deserve this kind of treatment from him.

He used his hand on her back to turn her a little towards him and planted a kiss on her forehead. "You're doing well", he told her.

"Chance?" Guerrero's voice again. "We've got a problem. Can't hack Binham's phone. There's an interfering signal, not sure yet where it's coming from, but it seems to be specifically designed to sabotage…oh…"

_Oh?_ An "oh" from Guerrero, that was a very bad sign.

"Oh? What "oh"? What the hell is going on?" Winston via earpiece.

"There's a second signal – meant to track…"

"Same source?" Chance started looking around even more alert than he already was. Something felt even stranger than before, he couldn't quite pinpoint it, but… with a nod he motioned Ames to get closer to Binham.

"No, different sources. I think I can trace the interfering signal… the tracking signal is more sophisticated, someone did a good job on this… " In the background they could hear him typing away hectically.

"Can you tell to whom the tracking signal leads?" Chance directed Ilsa with a wave of his hand to seek refuge on the sidelines.

"Far end of the room, nine o'clock."

Chance spotted him immediately – a lanky man, not as young as he seemed at first glance. Although he was wearing evening attire, he didn't quite fit in. He reminded Chance a bit of Doug, the anthropologist he had once rescued from the jungle… a perpetual student kind of guy.

The lanky man suddenly looked kind of startled. Had he noticed Chance looking at him? Chance had been very cautious.

The two thugs in black suits who suddenly came out of a side corridor however, hadn't.

Can you say "subtle as a concussion"?

One of them was holding a tiny black box in his hand. A tracker.

The lanky man bolted, made a run for the door, the thugs, suddenly with weapons drawn, in close pursuit.

The second the guns came out, people started screaming. A stampede of reception guests broke out and in the midst of it Guerrero's voice: "I've got the location of the interfering signal – I'll take a look."

Chance and Winston pushed their way through the crowd in order to rescue the young man – he had probably nothing to do with the Binham issue, whatever the Binham issue was, but he was definitely in need of help. Ames, meanwhile, dragged a very surprised Mr. Binham out of harm's way and Ilsa helped the security personnel to get the fleeing guests out. Someone had set off the alarm, too, so the whole turmoil was accompanied with the shrill wailing of a siren.

Great.

Outside it was quieter, but in the distance police sirens could be heard, so there was very little time left to act without hindrance. Guerrero hurried across the parking lot. The source of the interfering signal had to be somewhere around… there! A van, not unlike their own. Cautiously, very cautiously, he crept forward, drew his gun but kept it hidden under his jacket till he was at the car's door.

"We've lost them." Chance's voice via earpiece, and Winston's heavy breathing. "No sign of any of them. No blood or dead body either."

"Could do with backup on the northern parking lot", Guerrero quietly replied.

No guard post outside. Maybe video surveillance? Guerrero couldn't spot any, but nowadays, with all the sophisticated stuff you could buy second hand on e-bay, that didn't mean much.

So speed was the key.

With one fluid motion he yanked the van's back door open and aimed his gun at the occupants.

"You?"

It takes a lot to surprise Guerrero, but he would have genuinely never expected Sergej in the van.

Okay, let me specify that: He would have genuinely never expected Sergej in the van accompanied by Daisy.

"Rusty? What are you doing here?"

… … …

_The office. _

"Daisy is an archeologist specializing in the pre-Columbian era", Sergej explained.

Nobody said a word, but it was easy to tell what they were all thinking: "Seriously? They're letting _her_ into touching distance of priceless ancient objects? _Fragile _priceless ancient objects?"

Either Daisy didn't notice the team's skeptical expressions or she was a good ignorer. "Six years ago a stone plate with a carved in Tzolk'in calendar popped up on the black market", she explained. "I've seen photos of it, it's spectacular. A very rare masterpiece, practically unique. The museum informed the FBI and posed as a potential buyer. A meeting was set up, but somehow it all went wrong. Armed thugs appeared and tried to steal the calendar. The FBI managed to arrest the thugs, but the seller disappeared with the calendar. For six years."

While Daisy spoke, her complete behavior changed, from mousy klutz to self-confident scientist. Suddenly they could imagine her handling priceless objects.

"A couple of days ago the calendar came up on the market again. This time the museum didn't inform the FBI – back then it looked so much like they had a mole in the Bureau... we just didn't want to risk the calendar disappearing again or ending up in the hands of a private collector after all. So I offered Sergej's services… " She threw him a loving smile. Sergej smiled back. Only now they noticed half of one of his incisors was missing.

"Why did you try to block Binham's cell phone?", Winston asked.

"The seller of the calendar arranged an auction and it was pretty clear from the beginning that Binham was the richest and most interested private bidder. We wanted to lock him out so that the museum's bid would be accepted."

"Apparently someone else took more drastic measurements to get his hands on the calendar…", Winston mused.

"You've got to save the calendar. You save people, don't you? This calendar is an important piece of mankind's cultural heritage. It's just as worth saving as a human being."

"And it would talk less than the average client..." Guerrero mused.

"Couldn't die on us..." Winston agreed.

Chance slowly tapped his fingers against the surface of the glass he was holding, deep in thought. "If the museum was in contact with the seller…."

Winston nodded. "…and if the seller somehow managed to get away from the thugs…"

"…then maybe the museum could still able to send him a message", Guerrero finished the sentence.

Ilsa and Ames exchanged annoyed glances. Ilsa would have probably phrased it differently than Ames, but oh how they hated this "we've been through so much together, we know what the other one is thinking"- BS.


	45. Chapter 45

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_On top of the crookedest street in San Francisco, midday. _

After the incident at the museum the seller was scared shitless. No surprise he had agreed to hand over the calendar against the sum of money the museum offered. "The bloody thing is cursed or something! I just want to get rid of it!"

So they had decided to meet on Russian Hill, just the boys, Sergej and Daisy. Ilsa was at home, still trying to shake off the shock regarding the Rebecca ordeal. Ames was at home, too, recuperating from last night, she had sprained an ankle during the stampede of people. Mr. Binham didn't need protection anymore since the calendar was apparently the reason he'd come into someone's firing line in the first place.

Lombard Street was not exactly a quiet location, with dozens of tourists walking up and down the steps located on either side of its sharp curves despite the rather hot midday sun, but with all the coming and going at least unobtrusive.

Well, that was until the seller pulled up in a truck.

"Daisy, what did you say, how big exactly is that calendar?", Chance asked, very slowly, very calm.

"It's a lot smaller than the Aztec Sunstone, only about eight feet in diameter", she explained via earpiece.

"Did she just say "only"?" Winston's voice from his position on the other side of the street.

"Daisy, if that thing is made of basalt stone and measures about eight feet in diameter, do you have an idea how much it weighs?" Chance was still speaking slowly and calmly. "How in the world did you think we'd transport it?"

"Well, I _told_ you it's from the Classic period and was most likely created in Palenque…"

"Word of advice…" Sergej chimed in. "Don't argue with her on the significance of that information for people not familiar with pre-Columbian art…"

"Would you sell your truck, too?", Chance asked the seller, but the seller was already on the verge of unloading what was basically a very big round stone plate.

With the help of a small electric pulley, of course.

"You've got to be kidding me! Ever since I found that thing among a cargo of pottery from Mexico it's brought me nothing but trouble. I'll definitely not give up my truck for it!"

Shall we visit the "unobtrusive" element in this again? Picture Chance standing on one of _the_ landmarks in San Francisco, giant wheel-like Mayan thing by his side.

Oh boy. Who said this particular "client" wouldn't cause any trouble?

Maybe we should revisit this point again, too…

"I can order a truck from the museum", Daisy suggested, the tone of her voice indicating that, had the team said anything, she would have done that from the very beginning. How can you _not _know that artifacts from the Classic Palenque period tend to be bigger than those from the preclassic Dzibilchaltun area for example?

"Yeah, and meanwhile I'll just pretend I'm collecting money for the De Young with a very special promotion", Chance grumbled.

Not a bad plan. Unfortunately the thugs that had been after the plate yesterday at the museum were maybe a bit stupid and maybe a bit slow, but they did manage to trail the seller to Lombard Street, albeit they were a little late.

Chance saw them coming, he saw the guns in their hands, he thought of the stampede at the museum, of all the tourists walking to and fro here and he made a decision. There was only one way to avoid a blood bath.

Daisy saw him turn from her position in the van. "Don't tell me he's going to…"

He gave the stone plate a shove.

Do you know why Lombard Street is designed the way it is, with all those switchbacks? They were born out of necessity in order to reduce the hill's natural 27% grade.

27% grade, that's damn steep.

And a basalt, wheel like plate, weighing several tons, can get damn fast, rolling down said steep hill.

Daisy couldn't believe it. "That's a priceless object of art!"

"Let's hope it's also a _solid _object of art", Guerrero stated flatly. Just like the rest he could do nothing but watch the plate roll. Of course it didn't follow the road's curvy layout, it took the direct way, mowing through the borders of flowers whenever they got in the way.

It was a spectacular sight, no doubt about it: Cars being yanked left and right, colliding, people jumping out of harm's way… can you say "swath of destruction"? Thank God this was a one way street and the speed limit was 5 miles per hour, but still… Winston could only groan and bury his face in his hands.

Ilsa would _kill_ them for this.

At the foot of the hill a large truck pulled up. The logo said something about donuts and cakes. The stone plate hit the heck of a Humvee, bounced against part of the precinct and was – due to its enormous speed – suddenly flying through the air.

Flying, flying… in an almost elegant curve… and…

THUNK

…getting stuck in the left side of the large truck.

"It's still in one piece!", Daisy rejoiced.

"In contrast to the rest of Lombard Street…", Winston sighed.

"Sergej?", Guerrero asked via earpiece.

"Yes?"

"Don't have kids with her."

… … …

_The office, a couple of hours later. _

The museum had hauled the plate off. Figuring this whole affair was far from over, Winston and Chance had accompanied it and decided to spend the night there, watching it, while Guerrero and Sergej would do some online digging to find out who might be behind all these attempts to get the calendar and why.

Sergej was completely smitten with the computer table. "Could you maybe hire me more often?" He couldn't take his eyes off the monitors. His hands flew over the touchpad. Of course, hacker that he was, he didn't stay where he was supposed to be.

"Whoa, that program, is that…?"

Guerrero quickly closed the window. "You've never seen it."

"Does it really work? I've heard about it, but…"

"What program, Sergej?"

He finally got the hint.

… … …

_The museum, late in the night. _

"What time is it?", Chance grunted, shaking his head and rubbing his eyes.

"Two o'clock in the morning." Winston handed him a cup of coffee.

"I was supposed to take over the watch at midnight. You shouldn't have…"

"Not much happening here anyway and with all the adrenaline I couldn't have slept anyway." Winston still didn't look tired.

"Talked to Ilsa yet?"

"Got a text message that said something about ambush of lawyers…"

"At least she isn't brooding over the Rebecca incident anymore."

Winston grunted. "Yeah, one way to look at it." He shone his flashlight at the plate. "I wonder what's so special about this thing."

"Ask Daisy and don't make any plans for the rest of the day."

"No, seriously, I mean, whoever is after this spent six years hunting down our seller and is willing to kill for it…"

Chance finally got up, switched on his flashlight and shone it at the stone, too. "There's something off with it…"

Winston accessed the internet with his smartphone and for the next hour or so they compared the signs on the stone with those of diverse other Mayan calendars.

Finally Chance stepped back. "This feels like we're looking at it from the wrong angle. If you look at that corner…" he illuminated the spot with his flashlight "…and then here…" Suddenly his whole demeanor changed, his eyes lit up, he was fascinated. "It looks like…"

His phone rang. Absentmindedly, still staring at the stone with newfound interest, he took the call.

"Ames, this is not…"

He tensed.

"Calm down! Listen to me – you've got to calm down."

Winston's stomach clenched. When Chance spoke like that, something bad had happened.

"No, no, don't call an ambulance, we'll call an ambulance. They'll be at your house in a minute, they won't ask questions."

Winston got the message, he switched on his own phone and called the special number that would sent out their very private ambulance service.

The perks of being associated with Ilsa Pucci.

He also alerted Dr. Grace. When an ambulance was needed, her services most likely were, too.

"We'll be with you in a sec, don't worry, just keep breathing, calm down." Chance was rushing out the door.

Winston didn't even think of asking about the plate. Something was wrong with Ames.

He hurried after Chance.

Forget the goddamn plate.


	46. Chapter 46

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_Ames' house, bedroom, approx. ten minutes earlier. _

Ames woke with a start, glanced at the clock on her nightstand, sighed and curled up in the sheets again. She always slept badly when Alejandro was away on one of his business trips. The house seemed so empty without him.

She felt tired, but somehow sleep didn't want to come back to her. She kicked at the blanket and turned her pillow, looking for a cool spot, but it was all to no avail.

Damn, her ankle hurt. She hadn't paid the injury much attention at first, but now, after a day had gone by and several hours of not moving much, the injured part felt stiff and swollen.

Drowsily she decided to look for some ointment in the bathroom. Guerrero's present when they had moved in had been a very sophisticatedly equipped first aid box. It surely contained some sort of cooling gel.

She didn't turn on the lights when she padded down the corridor. What for? This was her home. She knew her way around here.

Maybe if she had turned on the lights…

But that's useless. Let's not waste our time with what could have been if. She didn't turn on the lights. Period.

And because she didn't turn on the lights, she saw a tiny, brief yellow-white flicker downstairs. A flashlight.

Others would have put it down to an overactive imagination, but Ames was too well-trained. Her survival had too often depended on perceiving her surroundings precisely.

She knew what she had seen.

And she knew something else: She hadn't been exactly quiet when she had gotten out of bed. In fact she had cursed the goddamn ankle loudly. So whoever was downstairs knew she was up and about. And knew also that she most likely had seen something because she had suddenly halted and grown very silent.

This didn't leave her many options. She could hope for whoever was downstairs to get scared and slink away, or…

Ames dashed back to the bedroom, as fast as her ankle allowed. Her mobile was in the bedroom, and the gun the boys had given her. She was not planning to use it, she wanted to call the cops, but just in case – footsteps on the stairs! Running footsteps! The intruder had decided to not quietly disappear but seek confrontation instead.

She tried to slam the bedroom door shut behind her, but whoever it was, he was fast and powerful. He threw himself against it, forced it open, stumbled into the room and tried to grab her. Ames kicked out madly, crashed to the floor, he got hold of her left leg but she managed to reach the gun hidden underneath the bed.

"Hold it!", she cried and aimed vaguely in the direction of the attacker, but instead of freezing he tried to wrest the gun from her hand.

She fired blindly, heard a cry, but obviously not from her attacker who was still trying to pin her down. She flipped him over, trying to get hold of his windpipe and in all that panic and struggling she fired again, twice.

He rammed his knee into her stomach, she lashed out at his mask-covered face, they both rolled over, bumped into the bed, the lamp on her nightstand crashed to the floor, everything turned pitch-black, Ames fired once more… he slumped down and something wet and warm oozed through the t-shirt she used as a nightgown.

Shaking all over, she pushed the attacker's lifeless body away, stumbled to her feet, almost tripped over him and switched on the ceiling light.

Momentarily blinded, she closed her eyes and leaned against the doorframe to catch her breath. Only when her own ragged panting subsided and her breathing reached a normal rhythm again her ears noticed another sound, only a few steps away. Labored gasping, gurgling. Was the attacker alive after all?

Slowly Ames opened her eyes. And started screaming.

Later she couldn't say why she didn't call an ambulance immediately. Be it habit or instinct, whatever, fact is, the first she did when she had finally found her phone that had slid underneath the bed during the fight was call Chance.

"I've shot Alejandro!", she cried into the phone, staring helplessly at her husband who was lying on the carpet, one hand pressed against an ugly looking stomach wound. "Someone broke into the house and we struggled and I shot him and suddenly there's Alejandro, on the floor! I didn't even see him, I shot him, I…"

"Calm down! Listen to me – you've got to calm down."

His voice got through to her, like it always did. No matter what trouble she had found herself in, he had always managed to make things right again, to guide her through. The room stopped spinning. She was still crying desperately, but she didn't feel like fainting anymore.

"He's dying! Chance, he's dying, I've got to call an ambulance!"

"No, no, don't call an ambulance, we'll call an ambulance. They'll be at your house in a minute, they won't ask questions."

"I shot him in the stomach!"

"We'll be with you in a sec, don't worry, just keep breathing, calm down."

He talked to her till he and Winston arrived at her doorstep, two minutes after the ambulance.


	47. Chapter 47

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_A doctor's office a bit outside of San Francisco. _

Winston had stayed behind at Ames' house to discreetly move the masked man's body. Guerrero knew a pathologist who owed him a favor. He'd take a look and then dispose of it.

Thank God the house on the left was for sale and empty and the neighbors on the right were on holiday. Apparently nobody had heard the gunshots. Somewhere down the street someone might have noticed the ambulance, but the driver had turned off the siren a minute or two before arrival, so all in all they had drawn very little attention, hopefully.

Chance drove Ames to Dr. Grace's office, trailing the ambulance. "Long time no see", the slender woman greeted him curtly before disappearing into one of the treatment rooms with Alejandro.

"Don't worry, he's in good hands", he told Ames as they settled down in the waiting room.

She was still shivering all over. He removed her jacket and wrapped it around her shoulders.

"We should have brought him to a real hospital", she whispered. "I don't care what's gonna happen to me."

"Grace is not some back alley quack, she's really good at what she does", Chance tried to placate her.

"Then why have we never been here before with you, for example two months ago, when you had that gash along your thigh?"

"Our relationship is a bit strained… we ask her only when it's absolutely necessary…"

Ames didn't inquire further, she had her mind on Alejandro, but Chance's thoughts wandered back more than a decade ago nevertheless.

_"You look like you know what you're doing", Junior mused, watching the young slender woman working feverishly on Baptiste's gaping chest wound. _

_"I'm an emergency surgeon. Call an ambulance and he'll make it." She had both her hands buried in Baptiste's chest. _

_"Ambulance is not an option", Guerrero said calmly. "We'll put him in our van and haul him off." _

_"Are you kidding me? Without continuous treatment he'll die!"_

_"He won't 'cause we'll take you with us. Place we go has all the equipment you need." Guerrero's tone of voice made it very clear that he wasn't joking, but she still dared to talk back. _

_Kind of matched. Everyone had run away from the shootout, she had dashed to Baptiste's side to apply first aid._

_"I'm not going anywhere with you!"_

_In reply, Guerrero drew his gun, released the safety catch and pointed it at her head. _

_"Just play along and everything will be alright." Junior, careful not to get into Guerrero's line of fire, rested a reassuring hand on her back. _

… … …

_A couple of hours later she was sleeping on the leather couch in Joubert's office. Baptiste was sleeping, too, his breathing even, his pulse steady. _

_"She saved his life!", Junior protested. _

_"She knows where we reside and she's seen our faces", the Old Man insisted. "Look, I'll do it. I'll make it quick. She won't see it coming."_

_"There might be another solution", Guerrero chimed in._

… … …

_"I've never seen anyone sleep so peacefully in the custody of kidnappers", Guerrero told the young woman whose name was, as he knew by now, Grace, while she slowly blinked awake. He was perched on the far end of the couch, watching her intently. _

_Grace didn't reply. She might have slept peacefully, but now that she was awake again, she was definitely scared. The large knife that was resting in Guerrero's lap didn't exactly help either. _

_Well, it wasn't intended to anyway._

_"Can only mean you're more afraid of someone out there than of us." _

_Again she didn't reply, but he could read the answer in her face. _

_"I've dug around a little…" he produced a folder and started skipping through it. "Quite a few complaints to the police, nothing ever came out of it… you've also moved quite a lot, changed telephone numbers… there's even a fake name on your apartment door. Your ex-piano teacher, right? Stalking is a grave problem. I sincerely hope one day there'll be a law against it. In the meantime, do you want us to take care of that problem?"_

_Grace still remained silent. Guerrero gave her one of his semi-feral smiles. "You don't have to say anything. Just make sure you've got an alibi for tomorrow night."_

… … …

_She heeded Guerrero's advice. When the police came to her door the day after the next, telling her that the man who had made her life a living hell for five years had suffered an untimely and rather violent death, she did have an alibi. And yes, when she closed the door behind them, she felt elated. She had her life back! _

_But she also knew, should she ever lose a single word about the people she had met or the place she'd been to, she'd be framed for ordering a kill in no time. _

The sound of his cell phone ringing snapped Chance out of his memories. Ilsa.

"Someone stole the plate from the museum shortly after you left", she informed him after inquiring about Ames. "Daisy is beside herself."

"There's something off with the plate, with the symbols on it. Tell her to take a look at the photos we made, maybe she'll figure it out and that'll lead us to whoever has it now."

Dr. Grace came in, told them Alejandro's state of health was currently stable and allowed Ames a couple of minutes with him, but under her watch.

"She won't kill him, doc", Chance protested.

"Yeah, that's what you always say and who will be left behind with the mess?" She was adamant.

A short time later Guerrero arrived. "Sergej is at the office with Ilsa and Daisy, making sure she doesn't break the computer table… What happened?"

"Looks like someone broke into the house, attacked Ames, they struggled. Alejandro came home early from a business trip, heard the noise, walked upstairs and into the bedroom, just as Ames fired at the intruder", Chance explained. "Seems she didn't really aim, just pulled the trigger… She accidentally hit Alejandro before killing the attacker."

Guerrero snorted angrily. "Stupid thing, firing off blindly like that. How often did we tell her…? Typical."

Ames, who was just coming out of the treatment room, stopped dead in her tracks. She felt like he had slapped her in the face.

And that she deserved it.


	48. Chapter 48

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_The warehouse. _

Winston had removed the masked man's body but decided to leave the cleaning up to the pros. He hadn't slept all night while Chance had had some sort of nap, waiting at Dr. Grace's office and Guerrero had crashed on the sofa in the office, leaving Sergej to do some digging regarding the plate on his own. So now Winston was on his way home to get some rest while Guerrero and Chance were going to take care of business at Ames' place.

Ilsa was at home, too, exhausted from dealing with the aftermath of the Lombard Street disaster. Oh, she would get an earful from the Board for that one… Thank God for the time difference that allowed her a few precious hours of sleep before the bloody shit would hit the bloody fan.

Too vulgar for Ilsa? Normally, yes. And she did feel bad about using foul words. But she also felt completely drained and outworn, a state that definitely called for explicit language.

Poor Ilsa, she'd curse a lot in the days to come.

Ames had stayed behind at Dr. Grace's office who had slipped her a mild sedative. "Her husband is not the only one who got hurt in that incident", the doctor had warned Chance. "She's deeply traumatized. I know you guys see mental injuries as a sign of weakness, but if I were you, I'd look for professional help. She needs someone to talk to."

Sergej and Daisy were alone in the office. Not an ideal solution, leaving someone outside the team with access to their computer, especially someone as skilled as Sergej, but on the other hand no one than he knew better than to snoop around Guerrero's or the team's stuff. One confrontation with Guerrero uttering a thinly veiled threat had definitely been enough. The memory of icy cold blue eyes resting on him unreletingly still sent shivers down his spine.

"Any progress?", he asked his girlfriend.

"Chance is right, there is something off with the symbols", Daisy replied absentmindedly. "I wish I had the plate itself instead of just photos."

"What would you do if you had the plate?", Sergej asked and handed her a cup of coffee. He liked it when she was like that, completely focused. Her face shone in those moments and her eyes were gleaming. Besides that it was the safest time to be with her - no freak accidents lurking right around the corner when she was this concentrated.

"I'd use coal and paper to crosshatch the surface, to see if the sculptured symbols all have the same height. If some were inserted later, they'd probably differ…" She sighed.

"Baby, we're living in the 21st century. You don't need coal and paper." He made it sound like she had said "fire stone and bow".

… … …

_Ames' house. _

"Very sophisticated alarm system", Chance commented as they entered Ames' house.

"Thanks", Guerrero replied curtly. Ever since Chance had told him that Ames had shot Alejandro he was, even by his standards, unusually quiet and introvert.

Well, he had taught Ames how to shoot…

He should have known. Foolish thing. Nothing but trouble from day one.

"Your work and a burglar still managed to get in?", Chance frowned.

"Maybe she didn't switch it on", Guerrero shrugged. After the night's events, it wouldn't have surprised him. People who fire blindly into the dark surely forget to switch on alarm systems, too.

"Same system you used to secure the office?", Chance asked. "Then Ames and Alejandro have different codes to switch the thing off, right?" He opened the system's main keypad and pushed a couple of buttons. Stopped. Pushed some more. Knitted his brows.

"The last code entered was Alejandro's, not Ames'", he said, rather puzzled. "According to the system's protocol Ames switched the system on right after she came home. Then, about half past two in the morning, Alejandro switched it off…"

"That was way before the attack." Guerrero knitted his brows, too. "He was already in the house when the burglar went after Ames?"

"Where is his suitcase? He came home from a business trip, there must be a suitcase somewhere down here." Chance looked around.

No suitcase.

Guerrero called Sergej. "Don't care what Daisy found, dude. If you feel it's important call Ilsa or Winston. But first – and I _mean_ first – I need you to run a deep background check on Ames' husband. You'll find the necessary information in a hidden folder, password _w1985alt!er_. "

"Didn't you run a deep background check on him before they got married?"

"Maybe things changed in the meantime. I've been busy with relocating… a certain someone… after the mess with Ilsa. Didn't have time to keep track on all my other projects…" Guerrero's mobile rang. The pathologist who owed him a favor. He had managed to identify the masked man. Guerrero told him to mail Sergej all information available.

"Ames said the attacker came from downstairs and forced his way into the bedroom. Alejandro must have come up behind him", Chance concluded.

They walked upstairs and entered Ames' bedroom where everything was still like she had left it a couple of hours before, minus the dead body and Alejandro, of course. Two bloodspots, however, marked where they had lain.

"Four shots are missing from Ames' gun", Guerrero said. "I'm counting three bullet holes… One in the drawer, one in the floor, one in the wall…"

Chance knew what he was getting at. "If she shot both her attacker and Alejandro, there should be only two holes…"

Guerrero pulled out his mobile and made two more calls. Dr. Grace complained she was no expert in fire arms, yadda, yadda, but finally said the bullet she had retrieved from Alejandro's wound was about 12mm in base diameter. The pathologist said the same thing about the bullet he had found in the masked man.

"Not Ames' ammunition…" Chance stated thoughtfully. "And look at the doorframe… do you see what I see?"

Of course Guerrero saw. Tiny speckles of blood. Far away from the rest of Alejandro's blood.

So _there_ went Ames' missing bullet…

His mobile rang again. Sergej, with very interesting information regarding Alejandro…

_**A/N: A big thank you to niagaraweasel who helped plotting this! Hugs!**_


	49. Chapter 49

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_The warehouse. _

"I just can't believe somebody marred an invaluable manifestation of Mesoamerican culture!" Daisy repeated once more. "This is worse than those so-called 19th century Egyptologists who carved their names into Egyptian artifacts!"

"We get it." Winston was grumpy due to serious lack of sleep. "Whoever manipulated the stone committed a crime against mankind's cultural heritage. Could we get on to the hidden message now?"

Daisy threw him her version of a dirty look. How could anyone not be outraged at the atrocity of this deed?

Sergej put a placating hand on her shoulder and used the other one to access the pictures of the stone plate. "We measured the height of the various symbols and found out that some were inserted later. They are shallower than the older ones. The problem is, we can't make sense of them. It all looks jumbled."

Ilsa stared at the computer screen. "Can you print that out?", she asked. "With the newer symbols enhanced in a different color?"

A couple of minutes later she was holding the picture in her hand. "Winston, do you remember the case that I reviewed with you because of the enormous expense account Guerrero had handed in? You worked on it before my time, but there were still some payments to make when I took over, so I read the file…"

Winston looked at her, than it dawned on him. Of course…! "We need a scissor – and glue!"

To Sergej's and Daisy's great amazement, Winston and Ilsa cut the picture of the stone into four pieces and rearranged them on a larger piece of paper.

"Now scan this in again", Winston instructed Sergej. "Can you write a program that virtually folds the paper in all possible combinations?"

Sergej could. Pretty soon the computer was folding and unfolding the scanned in paper in all sorts of ways, creating new compositions of the symbols by the minute. Four pairs of eyes watched its every move.

"There!", Ilsa suddenly exclaimed. "That, isn't that…?"

"Wow", said Sergej.

"Chance and Guerrero need to see this", Winston decided.

… … …

_Dr. Grace's office, same time._

Grace knew the look on the men's faces only too well. "You're not going to kill him here. Under no circumstances. And I'm not going to lend you my bone saw either!"

In the course of the years Grace had developed a very healthy attitude regarding the patients Guerrero and Co. had brought her. Call it coldhearted, but she was not willing to sacrifice herself for any of them.

Not once had they brought her a completely innocent person. What goes around comes around.

Oh, how true. Are you listening, Alejandro?

"Where's Ames?", Chance asked.

"She said she needed a breath of fresh air", Grace shrugged.

"You let her leave? She's half-sedated!"

"I didn't let her drive. Her car keys are still here, see? And she's only a bit becalmed, it's not that she's staggering around totally disoriented", Grace snapped, defiantly. "I'm nobody's warden."

"I can track her phone", Guerrero chimed in. "Let's talk to Alejandro first."

Alejandro knew something was up the minute Chance and Guerrero walked in.

"Doc told us you're going to be okay again", Chance stated.

"Which is a good thing because this way it'll be a lot more fun." Guerrero sat down on Alejandro's bed.

"Fun?" Alejandro's left eye started twitching slightly. "What will be _more fun_?"

"The punishment." Guerrero took off his glasses and started wiping them.

Neither Chance nor Guerrero were in the mood for a demonstration of Alejandro's acting talent, so Chance cut straight to the chase.

"Debts, Alejandro. Major debts. With the wrong people."

"The house was very expensive", he attempted to explain.

"Yeah, blame it on Ames, dude. That'll surely make us mellow."

"You were planning to kidnap her, right?", Chance asked. His face was a mask of stone. In moments like these he looked just as scary as Guerrero.

"Her boss, that Pucci woman, she paid the house's interior design just to make her happy. I figured she must mean something to her and that she'd be willing to pay, should her life be in danger." Alejandro was now visibly trembling. "Nobody was supposed to get harmed."

"Well, that plan definitely backfired", Chance commented acidly. "I hope your second buddy found at least proper medical help after Ames shot him. Judging from the blood on the doorframe she hit him in the shoulder region. Saved by the bell. But he'll forever have to live with the knowledge that he not only hurt you, he also killed his friend, the masked intruder."

Guerrero put his glasses back on. "Once you get out of here, I'll give you a headstart of three days. After that you're fair game."

Normally an announcement like that would have reduced the recipient to a pleading, shaking bundle. But Alejandro looked a lot more confused than scared.

"What second buddy?", he asked, looking from Chance to Guerrero. "The plan was that me and my friend Jeffrey go in, grab my wife, haul her off and make a demand. She didn't shoot me?"

Chance and Guerrero exchanged glances. Winston would maybe have picked it up, Alejandro surely didn't.

It were alarmed glances.

"A fourth person in the room…", Guerrero began. "Not connected with Alejandro."

"He must have had a silencer screwed on, that's why nobody heard his gunshots in the turmoil."

"Ames shot four times. She missed thrice, but the fourth shot hit him in the shoulder region. After he had offed the intruder and almost Alejandro." Guerrero's mobile signaled. Winston's number. He rejected the call.

"If the fourth person killed the masked intruder and tried to kill Alejandro, but didn't touch Ames…" Chance's eyes widened.

Oh damn.

He pulled out his phone and hectically speed-dialed Ames.

"He needed Ames unharmed… To take her with her? But couldn't because she had injured him?" Guerrero's mobile signaled again. Ilsa this time. He switched it off.

... ... ...

_A park, same time. _

Ames knew the doctor had sedated her, so walking far was out of question. She settled for taking a seat on a bench in a park near the doctor's office, trying to clear her thoughts in the fresh air.

When her mobile signaled she felt inclined not to answer it. It was Chance's ringtone. She didn't feel up to talking to him right now. He and Guerrero were so right, she had acted foolishly, had put herself and others in danger by ignoring everything they had ever taught her about guns.

At least Alejandro was going to be alright. But would her marriage survive this? Her mind wandered back to Harry's wedding and she just wished she could be there again, in his arms, dancing…

Had she ruined it all?

Her mobile again. Chance was persistent. Sighing, she pulled it out and was just about to take the call when all of a sudden something hard hit her hand and knocked it to the ground.

A split second later the world turned dark.

_**A/N: Thank you again, niagaraweasel, for helping out!**_


	50. matters of the heart

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_**~ matters of the heart ~**_

_The park near Dr. Grace's office. _

He ran.

The most logical option would have been to make a dash for the park's exit, but there were two of them and they had blocked that route of escape.

Oh God, he was scared.

They were driving him deeper into the park's premises, away from the road where someone might hear his screams.

It was evening, the area was deserted around this time.

He halted.

His heartbeat was ear deafening, but everything else was eerily quiet.

Were they still after him? Had they given up?

He gasped for air. Running was so not part of his daily routine. His feet hurt, no surprise given in what pitiful state his shoes were.

He had had to leave his cart with his belongings behind.

Damn bastards! If anyone stole his sleeping bag…

Where were they?

He looked around, strained his ears, tried to block out his galloping heart.

Not a sound. Nowhere. They must have given up. No one can move that silently.

He let out a deep sigh of relief. Saved by the bell. Well, he had always been good at taking a powder. This called for a drink.

Guerrero broke through the undergrowth like a tiger. A split second later he had the homeless man in a chokehold from behind while Chance kept watch in the background.

"One wrong move", Guerrero hissed into the man's ear, "and I break your neck."

"What do you want? I've done nothing wrong!"

The sudden stench of fresh urine told Guerrero that his attempt at scaring him was working well.

"There was a young woman on the bench right by your hideout. She was kidnapped. What have you seen?"

"Nothing, nothing! I swear!"

He was lying. Definitely not the best decision in his life, but when had he ever made good decisions?

Guerrero dragged him over to a small pond and pushed his upper body under the water's surface.

Chance's mobile rang. Ilsa's number. It wouldn't do any good if she heard the man scream. He moved a few feet away from the pond, making sure that he still had an eye on all paths that led up to it.

Guerrero dunked the man a second time, just as Chance took the call.

"You've got to come back to the office. We've made a shocking discovery! The stone plate was apparently used as a means of transport for a hidden message. It looks like a ground plan and we have reason to believe that it's military…"

Chance took a deep breath, like they had taught him at the ashram. He let all possible options run fast forward through his mind.

There was no other way.

He told her, as calmly as possible, that Ames was missing. And then:

"Ilsa, you and Winston have to deal with this stone plate issue alone. Guerrero and I will look for Ames."

She was besides herself. "NO! Under NO circumstances! Heaven knows who has taken her and what they're doing to Ames right now! We've got to find her! To hell with that bloody plate!"

"What if that guy comes back? He might kill me!", the homeless man whimpered in the background.

"What do you think _I'll_ do?" Guerrero replied, very placidly, his hands iron claws around the man's twisted arm and neck. Slowly, very slowly he lowered his face to the water's surface. This time he didn't immerse the head completely – all he did was make sure that his nose and mouth were covered.

"Ilsa, someone sent armed thugs to the museum, risking a bloodbath, and later did the same at Lombard Street." Chance spoke just as placidly as Guerrero, only without the assassin edge. "Whoever stole the plate from the museum was after the information on it, pursued it for years at all costs and now has it. If it's something military, chances are a lot of people's lives are at risk. You can't drop this. You and Winston find out what ground plan it is and make sure nobody dies."

In the background wild splashing of water indicated that the man was running out of air, fast. The panic stage had set in. Guerrero pulled up his face.

"Last chance, dude."

"A license plate. I've seen a license plate, belonging to a blue van."

"We've got to go, Ilsa. You and Winston take care of the plate thing. Don't try and find Ames." Now he let the assassin edge creep in. "This is serious. Don't disappoint me."

He cut the connection.


	51. Chapter 51

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_The jet, the next day._

"We could really need your help, Emma", Winston repeated one more time.

"And I'd really like to be of help, but I'm totally caught up in this drug shipping case, I just can't divide my attention at the moment."

Ilsa yanked the cell phone from Winston's hand. "A lot of peoples' lives might be at stake! You're the one who worked in Washington for years, you've got all the contacts with the right people… We don't know who is in this and wh's not, if there's a mole somewhere…" She took a deep breath. "I know we didn't part on the best of terms…"

"_Not the best of terms?_" Emma's voice was shaking with barely contained anger. "You were pointing a gun at me! You let two dangerous criminals escape, humiliated me and put my career at risk! Whatever mess you've brought onto you now, you sort it out yourself!"

She cut the connection.

Ilsa threw the cell phone all the way across the cabin. "Bloody American b…" Shaking with frustration, she stood in the middle of the aisle between the seats. Chance's words rang in her mind: "Don't disappoint me."

Never before had he said anything like that. It was such a far cry from "Ilsa can't pick locks."… she had longed for trust and confidence in her abilities, had gone crazy every time he had excluded her, left her behind… And now? What if she couldn't pull this off?

As if this wasn't enough, there was also something else. Something that put her even more on edge than any fear of letting down Chance ever could.

A reassuring hand came to rest on her shoulder, just as her thoughts threatened to get caught in that particular doom loop again.

"Nobody said you're in this alone", Winston told her. "We've got other contacts in Washington, from jobs we worked before you took over. There's a general who still owes us a favor… I'll give him a call. We're in this together, Ilsa."

She closed her eyes briefly. "I can't stop thinking about Ames", she confessed.

Winston's face grew serious, just as serious as Chance's voice had been. He placed his other hand on her other shoulder and gently but firmly turned her around so that she had to face him directly.

"We need to concentrate on this job now and trust Guerrero and Chance that they can hold their end of the stick. This is the only way this will work. We need to trust each other's abilities."

Ilsa slowly nodded, a cold shiver of fear running down her spine. She would have never expected things to be like this.

… … …

_The office. _

Guerrero cut the connection and put down his phone. His face was unreadable.

"Sergej?", Chance asked.

Daisy onboard of the jet was way too dangerous in terms of crashing and emergency landings. Besides that she and Sergej had contributed what they could in the stone plate issue. Now it was up to Winston and Ilsa to run with the ball, so the couple had stayed behind in San Francisco and Sergej was free to help out Chance and Guerrero.

Unfortunately there wasn't much to help.

"License plate is officially a dead end now." Guerrero was very still, statue-like. "Just like the van."

Only someone who knew him very well could make out the slight tremor of his hands.

A sign of fear and despair? Are the tremors around a volcano before an outbreak signs of fear and despair?

"If this was about ransom…", Chance began.

"They would have called by now", Guerrero finished. "No claim for money, no taunting… This is not directed against us. Neither to lure us out nor to torment us."

"A random serial killer?"

Voicing that thought was hard. But it was a possibility. And if yes, they were dealing with a highly organized one. One who had staked out Ames' house, protected her and still followed her around even after getting injured…

Highly organized ones were usually also highly skilled ones when it came to torturing their victims… Guerrero had studied their methods quite thoroughly in his early years. He weighed his head. "There's no one active with that particular MO right now. And for a first strike of a new one it's too professionally planned."

Chance started pacing the room. His concern about Ames was clawing at his composure like a wild cat. She was in danger and they were sitting here, idly. Damnit!

"If it's not about Ilsa's money or revenge on us, if it's about Ames somehow but it's not a serial killer, what remains? You checked her background when she started out with us, didn't you?"

Guerrero shook his head. "Unknown father, drug-abusing mother, a long list of foster homes… There's nothing, dude." Suddenly, with great force, he cleared the desk he was sitting at. The fancy glass thing Ilsa had put there crashed to the ground and shattered into a thousand pieces, together with his cup of tea and the desk lamp.

Carmine, who had watched the men from the other side of the room, jumped up and fled in the direction of Chance's quarters.

For a long moment silence reigned.

"We'll have to...", Chance began, but he never got to finish the sentence.

His cell phone rang, an earsplitting sound in the deafening silence of the office.

An unknown number. The ransom call? Finally? Guerrero immediately started tracking it.

A female voice, polite, professional: "Am I talking to Mr. …" she apparently skipped through a couple of papers "…Christopher Chance? Ms. Sandra Lucknow has listed you as the person to call in a case of emergency."

Sandra Lucknow. One of the aliases Ames had gotten from Guerrero.

"Who's there?", Chance asked, gripping the phone hard.

"St. Francis Memorial. I'm afraid I have some very bad news for you, sir."


	52. Chapter 52

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_Washington, airport, still inside the jet._

"Relax, Ilsa, thanks to the general this will be very uncomplicated. We'll go to the meeting he arranged, present the contact from the Pentagon what we found and he'll hopefully know whom to inform." Winston tried to keep his usually worrying self quiet. Ilsa was on edge enough already.

Unfortunately she had been working with the team long enough not to be fooled that easily.

"When has anything ever gone uncomplicatedly?", she asked, knowing full well that all sorts of catastrophes could break out, once they set foot on solid ground again. "Nothing is ever easy."

Yes, she was scared. And she hated herself for it. This was what she had wanted, wasn't it? And now that she had it, she…

Winston took her hand and squeezed it gently. "It's okay to be afraid", he told her. "Remember, all we need to do is make it to the meeting."

… … …

_Saint Francis Memorial. _

"Blunt force injuries of the neck, petechiae that speak of asphyxiation, very specific ligature abrasions…" The doctor watched Chance closely. Could he stomach it?

"Define specific."

Yes, he could.

"The suspension point caused the ligature furrow to rise to one ear…"

Chance shook his head in disbelief.

"Severe obstruction of the carotid arteries…" The doctor paused, deciding the man in front of him had heard enough bad news for the moment. "Look, she was very, very lucky. When cerebral circulation is severely compromised death occurs over four or more minutes from cerebral hypoxia, although the heart may continue to beat for some period after the brain can no longer be resuscitated… Had she been found any later, she would have ended up in a persistent vegetative state."

"Are you sure that no signs whatsoever point to a murder attempt?", Chance asked once more.

Now it was the doctor's turn to shake his head. "Her hyoid bone is intact. The skin on her hands and arms displays neither bruises nor scratches. Not a hint of defensive wounds. She doesn't even show fingernail marks in the neck area… A lot of suicides change their mind in the last minute and struggle to pry the rope off after all. She didn't. Tells me she was very determined."

"A sedative maybe?"

"Tox screen was negative."

Chance sat down. "Are there any signs of…?" He let the sentence trail off, couldn't bring himself to say it.

"No signs of sexual abuse either." The doctor put a hand on Chance's shoulder. "Concentrate on the positive side of it. She'll make it and there won't be any permanent damage. I'm going to place her on a 72-hour hold and I strongly suggest you get her professional help afterwards. Heed that and she most likely will be alright again. A surprisingly high percentage of people attempts or at least contemplates suicide at least once in their lives. This is not the end of the world. Be there for her and things will work out."

The doctor walked off, leaving Chance to his thoughts.

_Ames, what did you do?_

He got up, walked outside in desperate need of fresh air, pulled out his mobile and called Guerrero. What he had to say wasn't helping either: "DNA on the rope is hers. The hotel room's window can't be opened, the door was locked from the inside. Surveillance cams show no intruder whatsoever. Had the idiot in the next room not set his bed on fire with a cigarette, she'd be dead meat right now."

Guerrero's voice was reduced to a low growl. Like a wolf's right before attack. "What has she been thinking?"

"This doesn't make any sense." Chance started pacing down a winding path in the hospital's park. "We know she was kidnapped yesterday evening. She somehow escapes her kidnapper mere hours later and has nothing better to do than hang herself?"

"If she did that out of feeling guilty…"

Chance wasn't sure what Guerrero had originally planned for Alejandro, but he was most likely making adjustments right about now. "I don't think so. Alejandro was getting better when she walked out of Grace's office. Had he died, then maybe, but with him recovering? And we can't keep the kidnapper out of the picture – she manages to run and then wants to die? That's against all instinct and everything we know about her. She's a survivor. Why didn't she call us?"

One moment.

_Call. _

They had found Ames' smartphone by the bench, she must have lost it in the struggle with the kidnapper. But when the nurse had handed him her personal belongings, there had been… "Hang on a sec."

He hectically riffled through the brown paper bag. There it was. A cheap, prepaid cell phone. Chance activated it – not even a PIN code was required – and looked at the list of calls she had made.

Nothing. The list was blank.

No received text messages either.

But a sent one!

_Gonna do it. Make sure it works._

Chance stared at the words. Gonna do it? Make sure it works?

What the hell…?

But sense or no sense, Ames had sent this somewhere. "Guerrero, I need you to track a phone."


	53. Chapter 53

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_Washington, Ilsa and Winston in a rental car._

"We're being followed", Ilsa observed.

Winston made a mental note never to put her on sentry duty. The black Sedan had shown up ten minutes ago.

"What are we going to do now?", she asked, not letting the vehicle out of sight.

"Shake them off", Winston replied curtly, concentrating on the dense traffic.

Ilsa didn't say anything for a moment, obviously waiting. Then: "So, when are you going to start?"

"Start with what?"

"With shaking them off, of course."

Winston rolled his eyes heavenwards. "I'm already on it."

Ilsa looked at him, apparently checking if he was serious.

Had Guerrero been sitting next to him, Winston would have reacted with a thundering WHAT?, but since it was Ilsa, he took a deep breath, reminded himself that she was the one signing the paychecks and asked: "Anything bothering you?"

"When Chance tries to shake somebody off, he accelerates the car's speed violently. He makes a couple of reckless turns that cause other vehicles to bump into each other. He races backwards into one-way-streets and jumps the gap between the spans of opening drawbridges."

Winston reminded himself again that she was the one signing the paychecks. "My style of escape too boring for you, Ilsa?", he asked with strained politeness.

She picked up the irritated note in his voice and quickly backpedalled. "I'm just surprised by the differences, that's all."

"Chance prefers _insane_ while I prefer _methodically_," he replied while carefully signaling his intention to turn right. "Don't worry. You'll be surprised how far we get with _methodically_."

Aside from that Chance knew Washington well from his days as Junior. He had once pulled off a highly complicated – _um_ – job there Ilsa better didn't know about. Winston, on the other hand, had to rely on the navigation system – which led him into a narrow side street.

Had someone hacked into the rental's computer system?

On the far end of the street a van pulled up and blocked it. Behind them the black Sedan did the same. "Out!", Winston shouted.

Barely escaping a hail of bullets, they dashed through the backdoor of an Asian restaurant which led to a small backyard from which they could see the restaurant's busy kitchen. Their only route of escape, and the thugs surely knew that.

They were running out of time. Fast.

"I'm going to create a diversion", Winston told Ilsa. "You're going to the meeting."

"What? Alone? But…"

Before she could object any further, he lifted the lid of a green garbage can full of leftover food and motioned her to climb in there. "These garbage cans are picked up by a special company that turns the contents into pig food. They transport the complete cans, sort them out at their factory. I've seen their truck a block away from here, they seem to be collecting today. Hide in here and when they stop at a red light or something, you get out, okay? But make sure you wait long enough so nobody sees you."

He closed the lid above Ilsa's head and there she was, in the semi-darkness of a reeking, stinking garbage can with hardly enough air to breathe, waiting to be picked up by a bin lorry.

… … …

_An expensive hotel a little outside of San Francisco. _

The man who entered the hotel suite was nervous, sweating, exhausted, upset. His clothes were deranged, he was obviously on the edge of losing it. Pacing around the room like a caged lion, he rubbed his face till it hurt.

This was a nightmare! A complete, utter nightmare! They had been so close… so close… and now it had been snatched away from them, again.

They were running out of time! For heaven's sake, they were running out of time.

He broke down on the bed and started crying.

His sobs were so loud, for the first few seconds or so he didn't even realize that his mobile was ringing. Wiping his face with his sleeve, he finally pulled it out of his jacket, looked at the display and froze.

This was impossible. She was in hospital, under surveillance in a 72-hour hold. They surely didn't let her use her mobile. Or had she somehow sneaked away? He tried not to let his hopes go up, but of course when he answered the call, his voice was hopeful. "Is it you?"

No reply.

"Are you there?"

"If with "you" you mean Ames, I'm afraid I'll have to disappoint you", a cold voice from a shadowy corner of the room said. Deliberately slowly, Guerrero stepped into the light. "Dude, we've got to talk."

Before the man even had time to process what was happening, Chance had grabbed him from behind, wrestled him to the ground and immobilized him with a severe choke hold.

… … …

_Washington. _

Ilsa didn't wait long enough. The air in the can was so stuffy, the food leftovers were so disgusting, she just couldn't stand it anymore. The first stop of the truck, she climbed out.

Only to directly look at their pursuers, or at least menacing thugs who looked like they were pursuing somebody.

She jumped off the truck and ran. At least she had thought of taking off her high heels, but running barefooted on asphalt roads isn't exactly comfortable. Aside from that the thugs were fast.

Ilsa sought cover in a side street, but she knew she wouldn't be able to hide from them for long. They were way too experienced and too many. She needed to disappear from view somehow, but how…? Her hectically searching eyes came to rest on a sewer cover. The sewer system?

The day was getting better.

As soon as her bare feet made contact with the filthy, muddy sewer ground, she realized she might have shaken off the thugs, with a little luck, but that didn't mean she was off the hook, hunted-wise. She was smelling of all sorts of cooked food... In the darkness, only very dimly lit by the light of her mobile, a hundred tiny eyes trained themselves on her.

A hundred hungry tiny eyes.

Rats.

… … …

_The hotel suite. _

Chance was on the verge of telling Guerrero not to overdo it, they needed the man alive to give them answers, but that would have been like telling a highly skilled surgeon to cut carefully.

Guerrero turned on the shower again to wash the blood off him one more time. The man made gargling noises and Guerrero removed the gag. "Changed your mind about not knowing anything about a certain suicide attempt?"

He spat blood, coughed and heaved. Guerrero drenched him in cold water.

"She's my daughter", the man finally gasped. "She's my daughter." He started crying in long, desperate wails.

_**A/N: Sorry for the delay, real life is keeping me really busy...**_


	54. Chapter 54

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_Roughly three days earlier. _

Ames woke up in what looked like a fairly nice place. A hotel room or something. Really nice … Ilsa's level of nice.

Except for the fact that she was bound at hand and feet, that is. She cautiously tugged at her ties.

Manageable.

But someone was coming – approaching footsteps outside the room.

Ames closed her eyes, pretending to be still asleep. She heard the door open, then a man speak: "A few more hours and we can get started."

Started with what? Ames decided she wouldn't stick around to find out. Judging from the sounds, there were two men in the room, one faintly smelling of chemicals, like a doctor or something. The other one, though a lot farther away from her, emitted a strong stench of sweat.

"And she really won't suffer?", the stinking man asked anxiously.

"Not at all. A lot of people would envy her such an easy, painless death", the chemical man said, sitting down on the bed and loosening one of Ames' restraints, apparently to check her blood pressure or something.

Ames had definitely heard enough. She pretended to be stretching in her sleep and arched upwards. As chemical man gently pushed her back into the pillows, she "unconsciously" brushed past his jacket with her free hand, hoping he had a… ah, yes, like most medical people he kept a pen in his breast pocket. She snitched it. Pens were fantastic to get rid of restraints.

The second the men left the room, Ames frantically started working. Whoever these people were and whatever they wanted, she needed to get away fast. She had made it out of Guerrero's ties once, these should be a piece of cake in comparison and indeed, she had her hands free in no time. Now on to the feet…

"Let me help you", a female voice said, completely startling Ames. She hadn't heard any footsteps approach, but there she was, a middle-aged woman, standing next to the bed. She looked like a ghost, extremely pale, unnaturally thin, eyes hollow, but the more logical explanation for her sudden appearance was that he had climbed in through one of the windows, probably taking advantage of the hotel's balconies.

"There's a guard in the corridor, but the yard is unwatched. They sedated you. Can you climb with those drugs still in your system?" She crouched down and assisted Ames with removing her foot restraints.

"What is this all about?", Ames asked, slowly getting out of bed. Her balance was a little off, climbing wouldn't be easy, but she would manage. With the alternative being death, she had managed a lot more challenging situations.

"Just leave", replied the woman. "Just leave." She went over to the window, opened it and then asked again: "Can you climb?" She behaved as if someone had drugged her, too.

Before Ames had a chance to answer, the door burst open and the sweat-reeking man barged in, with a heavily muscled thug in tow. "What do you think you're doing, Sally?", he asked the ghostlike woman.

"This is not right", she answered without looking at him. "This is just not right."

"We're running out of time!", the man thundered. "Seven days max the doctors said. Seven days! I don't care if it's right or wrong, this is Ben's only chance!"

The woman started crying, violently shaking her head. "No", she sobbed. "No."

"We have no choice." The stinking man nodded at the thug, ordering him to restrain Ames again.

At that point, the woman fell to her knees. "She's your child, too!"

Ames thought her hearing had deceived her. "What? What is she talking about?"

The man looked as if someone had slapped him in the face. He looked at Ames, his face crumpled. He turned to the woman at his feet, his shoulders slumped, he started crying, too. "Why did you have to say that?", he asked her. "Why did you…?"

"YOU ARE MY FATHER?", Ames all but shouted. "You are my father?"

The man looked at her again, but he couldn't meet her eyes. "Follow me", he whispered.

The reeking man and the ghost woman led Ames to a room one floor below. It was furnished like a hospital room, with monitors, IV stand and all. The center of the room was occupied by a huge bed and in the bed lay a child, a boy, ten, eleven maybe. He looked like he had not too long ago been a sporting ace, he was rather big for a ten year old, football maybe? Wrestling? But his sportsman days seemed to be a thing of the past – his face was gaunt, his skin even paler than the ghost woman's, his breathing, supported by a mask, ragged and labored.

He looked very, very terrible. Ames instinctively reached out and touched his hand. It was cold and almost lifeless. The poor child.

"This is Benjamin, your half-brother", the reeking man said.

Ames started shivering. This was all too much. Way too much.

… … …

_The hotel room, present. _

"Let me get this straight", Chance said after the man in the bathtub had finished his story. "You're Ames father, the one that disappeared when she was still a toddler, leaving her at with her dopehead mother and not caring at all that she ended up in foster care, right?"

The man nodded.

"You somehow managed to turn a fresh leaf after leaving your child behind. You made a fortune with some sort of trading company, married a woman from the right segment of society and had a son with her. Not a thought wasted on Ames. Then, half a year ago, the son suddenly becomes sick. He needs a new heart, no donors are available, you remember that you've got a daughter whose DNA would be perfect..." Chance lashed out with sudden, violent force, grabbed the man by his throat and rammed him backwards against the bathroom wall. "How convenient that she's lean enough to fit through air vents. Her heart won't be too big for his chest." He grabbed the man's throat so hard, his eyes were bulging.

"I didn't force her to hang herself", the man choked. "That was her decision. Hers alone. I let her go, couldn't go through with it after all… She sent me that text message out of the blue, an hour or two after we had set her free. I was overjoyed… she wanted to safe her brother. She wanted to make him the greatest gift one person can offer another. She was willing to give her life for him."

"With hanging it often occurs that the heart continues to beat for a while after the brain can no longer be resuscitated…", Guerrero quietly stated. "Ideal for producing an intact donor organ…. The surveillance tapes that show the arrival of the firemen also show the arrival of an additional ambulance that left very soon, without taking anyone in. That were your people, right? You sent them to collect Ames."

"What are you going to do with me now?", the man whimpered.

Chance suddenly felt very sick. He let go of the man.

"Nothing. The death of your son will be punishment enough."

_**A/N: I researched the heart size part. It IS possible. **_


	55. Chapter 55

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_Washington. Sewer system. _

Ilsa stumbled forward in the darkness. She only had a vague idea in which direction the restaurant where the contact was waiting lay. There was the option of using her mobile's navigation system, but she feared that would allow her pursuers to locate her. Guerrero had said he had made her phone untraceable, but these people were obviously very good at hacking…

Above her the ceiling vibrated with an endless parade of cars and trucks, worming their way through the city in rush-hour traffic. Down in the sewer the rats were creating their own rush-hour. Something delicious smelling had descended into their realm…

The ground underneath Ilsa's feet squished and squoshed. From time to time something hard or sharp scraped her soles. The stench was unbelievable. She had thought the garbage bin was bad? Hell, she wished she was back in there!

At least the sound of hundreds of tiny, clawed paws, scurrying through the dirt, was drowned out by the traffic. But every now and then one of the rodents let out a high-pitched shriek, probably to alert even more of these beasts and those Ilsa couldn't block out.

Just like she couldn't block out her worries. Winston was out there, all on his own, facing the bad guys – "I'm going to create a diversion." What was that supposed to mean? He was in grave danger…

And Ames! Talk about grave danger… What had gotten into her, why in the world had she tried to…?

If not for the legions of rats around her, the horrible stench and the inch-thick pitch black muddy debris on the ground, Ilsa would have curled up in a corner and waited for someone to rescue her, Chance preferably.

Wait, wasn't that exactly…?

That was what the others had always implied, with all their moments of telling silence, their "Ilsa can't pick locks"-statements, their continuous exchange of glances… this was what Winston had been talking about, back in the hotel room in Washington of all places, when they had helped bloody Emma Barnes who, according to Winston, _knew __how to handle complicated situations on her own…_

Chances voice: "Don't disappoint me."

Ilsa stopped and took a deep breath. Big mistake, considering the horrible stench. She started coughing and almost gagged. But while she was bending over, cradling her ribcage, fighting the tears that were stinging her eyes, realization dawned on her: No one would come and rescue her. Instead it was up to her to do her part of the job. To hold her end of the stick. To trust that somehow the others would do the same and _by that_ they would all make it out alive somehow.

She needed to find that restaurant. The only option to do so was using her mobile's navigation system. Guerrero had said her phone was untraceable? She needed to trust he was able to hold his end of the stick.

Of course, down here she couldn't get a signal. But maybe if she…? She positioned herself directly underneath a sewer cover and activated her cell phone. Ah, there was the restaurant! But it was a thirty minutes walk from here, damn…

SPLASH

Someone had emptied something into the gutter. It was warm and thickish and most likely not water. Ilsa let out an angry scream of frustration, shook herself like a dog and proceeded to waddle on. Thirty minutes was a damn long time, but what choice did she have?

Just as she was about to round the next corner, she heard the scraping of metal. Her pursuers? Had Guerrero been wrong after all? Ilsa halted.

"Hello?" A stranger's voice. "Somebody down here?" Of course Ilsa didn't reply, but she risked a sneak peek. A man had lowered his upper body into the sewerage channel and was looking around. His hair was straggly, his clothes looked like he had found them down here – a homeless man. "Sorry if I drenched you!", he yelled into the semi-darkness. "Didn't mean to. Can I help you?" He was still not sure if he hadn't misheard – his mind often played tricks on him. But it had sounded like a woman screaming. And screaming women needed help. It was a question of being a man.

Ilsa was torn. This was most likely none of her attackers. But she couldn't be sure… On the other hand – what if the contact disappeared if she didn't make it on time? "You don't happen to know a shortcut to a restaurant named "The Treehouse", do you?"

The chief waiter had seen a lot of curious sights in his long career. But this woman and her companion? They definitely made it into his personal top five. "Where do you think you're going?", he asked, stepping into their way, making it very clear that nobody smelling like this and looking like this would even make it across his restaurant's threshold.

A long time ago, back in the boarding school in London, when she had fought with intense inferiority issues regarding her upper class school mates, a teacher had told her that it didn't matter where she was coming from or how much money she had. "It's the way you carry yourself, Ilsa, that's all that matters. People judge from appearances – and don't get me wrong, the right clothes help, but they're not everything. It's the body language that does the trick. That and your voice."

Well, if now wasn't the time to put that advice to the test…

Ilsa pulled herself up to her full height and let the waiter in her best British upper class accent know that she was expected by a guest at table number 16.

The waiter hesitated.

Looked at her.

Looked some more.

She didn't waver, didn't give up an inch of ground.

He stepped aside.

"My friend here will receive whatever food he chooses from the menu", Ilsa informed him.

If the contact was surprised or taken aback by her appearance, he didn't have much time to indulge in that feeling. She showed him the hidden message from the plate and he turned pale. "You've served this country very well, Mrs. Pucci", he told her – and hurried off, leaving her alone in the middle of a high end restaurant, looking like swamp thing 2.0 and reeking so badly, the other guests were already starting to move their tables and chairs away from her.

Ilsa however, didn't notice any of it. She was flabbergasted. That was it? All that trouble to deliver the information and that was it?

Yes, Ilsa, that was it. What did you expect, a parade? You probably just saved a lot of people's lives, but don't expect a medal for it. That's not the line of business you're in now.

Before she could dwell too much on the subject, however, her cell phone rang. Winston's number – and Winston's voice, thank God.

"I'm at a hospital, but it's nothing more than a scratch. The news I've got regarding Ames, however…"

An hour later Ilsa and Winston were on their way back to San Francisco. Thankfully, the jet had a showering facility on board.

… … …

_San Francisco._

When Chance and Guerrero arrived at the hospital, Ames greeted them chirpily, told them a nonsense story about how hanging herself had been an accident and asked to be brought home, she really needed some rest in her own four walls and some time alone, to take a breather.

They assured her they'd bring her home right away.

Still in the parking lot, before she even had a chance to fight back, they tasered her. Drugging her would surely have been the gentler method, but they didn't know what pills they had given her at the hospital and the risk was too high they'd react badly with the sedative.

Someone was bound to lose in this horrible catch-22 situation. They were hell-bent on making sure it wouldn't be Ames.

When they entered the building, somebody was waiting for them in front of the elevators.

"Dude, get a dictionary and look up what "head start" means", Guerrero told Alejandro while Chance carried Ames into the elevator.

Alejandro couldn't take his eyes off his unconscious wife. "What's wrong with her? I've heard she…"

"None of your business", Guerrero cut him off.

"I never wanted her to get hurt. It was a watertight plan. I wanted the money for us, to give her a good life…", Alejandro pleaded.

"Dude, start running."

"I came here for punishment", he replied, all but whispering. "I'm not going to run. What I did was horrible. I want to make up for it, somehow…" He started shaking.

Guerrero looked at him for a long moment, then turned to Chance. "Should Ilsa show up… Keep her away from the basement."


	56. Chapter 56

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_San Francisco. The warehouse._

Chance was making coffee when Guerrero entered the office's kitchen area. "So, are we going on a trip to the Bay tonight?"

Guerrero shook his head. "He's alive. He'd probably argue that point at the moment, but he'll make it." He placed a small bloody bundle on the worktop next to the sink.

Chance wasn't surprised by its content. "You're not going to feed those to Carmine."

"Uncomplicated disposal, dude. And no preservatives or any of the other shit they put into regular dog food."

"No." Chance looked at Guerrero and after a moment he realized he was just being teased. He took the bundle and wrapped it into kitchen paper. "I'll burn them on the roof."

"How's Ames?"

At the mention of her name, Chance's face became even more serious. He shrugged. "Pissed." Wordlessly he took the bundle and left the kitchen. Guerrero watched his retreating back for a moment, then fixed himself a cup of tea and went upstairs where Ames was restrained to Chance's bed. It was bigger and more comfortable than the bed in the guestroom. Aside from that, Chance's bedroom window let in more light.

"All I wanted was a moment of peace and quiet for myself", Ames snarled at Guerrero as soon as his feet crossed the threshold.

"Yeah, and maybe we could have stopped at a DIY market along the way, getting some new rope for you."

Ames looked away. "It's my decision, mine alone. You have no business meddling in this."

Guerrero snorted. "What did they do? Show you the kid? Did you get to touch him? Feel his cold skin, hear his ragged breathing? And then they showed you pictures, right? Of how he used to be – oh no, wait, we're in the 21st century, they probably showed you a home movie or two, him winning his first wrestling competition, driving a bike, frolicking in the pool…"

She sobbed.

"They manipulated you. You were already drugged and in emotional turmoil because of that idiot husband of yours. They gave you some more drugs and informed you about certain family ties. Talk about clouding your judgment…" Downstairs the elevator signaled. It sounded like Ilsa and Winston were finally back. Guerrero got up and walked to the door. Just before he exited the room, he turned around once more. "Nobody is going to apologize for this, Ames."

About an hour later they allowed Alejandro to see her. Under Guerrero's watchful eyes. He stumbled his way through a clumsy apology and told her he loved her.

Ames turned he head away, stared out of the window. The changing of the light outside was her only way to tell what time it was after Chance had removed the alarm clock from the nightstand.

She didn't want to hear what he had to say.

And she was not interested at all in what had happened to his hand.

Time was ticking by, running out…

She couldn't forget the feel of his skin underneath her fingertips. So cold.

In late afternoon, they let Ilsa take over the watch. The rest of the team crashed at various places of the office, trying to catch up on some much needed sleep.

What should happen? Ames was severely restrained, there was really nothing Ilsa could do wrong and aside from that she had performed really well in Washington, it was time to have a little more confidence in her abilities.

"I need to go to the bathroom", Ames told Ilsa a little while after the noises downstairs had died down and she could be half-way sure the others were asleep.

Ilsa was torn. Winston had strongly advised her not to touch the restraints in any way, shape or form, but on the other hand nobody had told her what to do should Ames had to follow the, um, call of nature…

And aside from that, what could Ames do? They were several floors above ground, the men were sleeping downstairs…

Ames fits through air vents, Ilsa… And she knows how to restrain and, more importantly, gag somebody, too.

Ilsa loosened Ames' ties and escorted her to the bathroom.

"Don't be ridiculous", Ames protested as she also proceeded to follow her inside. "This is really not necessary."

"I'll close my eyes", Ilsa promised. She never got that far, however, for the next thing that happened was Ames violently punching her in the face pretty much like Guerrero had done with her not too many months ago.

Unlike Guerrero, though, she hadn't practiced the move for years. She was also slightly slowed down by the fact that she didn't really want to hurt Ilsa. All she wanted was to get away through the air vent in Chance's bathroom, make it to the outside and contact her father. Maybe it wasn't too late after all…

Ilsa's nose started to bleed, she stumbled backwards, dragging down a shelf with toilet articles and causing a giant ruckus that of course woke the men downstairs. Even Carmine jumped up from his resting place and started to bark.

Now Ames had to be fast. She dashed over to the air vent – but only managed half of the distance, for Ilsa had lunged out and grabbed her left leg, causing her to crash to the ground.

Ames knew how to fight, Ilsa didn't.

And that was actually an advantage.

Someone who doesn't know how to fight, in contrast to someone who fights badly, acts erratically, totally unpredictable. Such moves are extremely hard to counter.

Too hard for Ames, still under the influence of God knew what and anyway not in her best shape.

"ILSA?" Chance's thundering voice outside the door. "AMES?"

"It's okay, it really is." Ilsa's voice. "Everything is under control."

He cautiously opened the door. Ilsa was sitting on the floor, holding shivering Ames in her arms. "Your life is worth just as much as everyone else's. We won't let you throw it away", she whispered into her hair.

Chance lifted Ames from the floor and she buried her face against his chest, softly sobbing. Gently stroking her back, he carried her over to the bedroom and tied her down again.

In the bathroom, Guerrero patched up Ilsa, making sure her nose wasn't broken.

"I've still got a lot to learn, haven't I?", she asked meekly.

"You're making progress", he replied and dabbed a cut above her eyebrow with iodine, making her wince. "You're definitely making progress."

Guerrero, of course, was also the one who later got the news through one of his contacts, not more than half an hour after it had happened. Winston went upstairs and freed Ames from her ties. He needn't say anything, neither to her nor to Ilsa who had kept watch by her side.

The ties weren't necessary anymore.

This time they respected Ames' wish to be alone. Besides that they all needed to take a breather. Ilsa called her driver, Winston grumpily offered Guerrero a ride. Chance, naturally, remained behind.

He was sitting in the kitchen, sipping at a cold cup of coffee, when Ames came downstairs. She sat down at the table and for a long time said nothing at all. Then:

"Tell me, do _you_ think, too, that your life is worth just as much as everyone else's?"


	57. tea ceremony

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_**~ tea ceremony ~**_

_Boston. The parking lot of a nondescript, seedy motel. _

With slightly shaking hands Ilsa unlocked the rented car's trunk. "I'm still not sure if this is a good idea. Ames' ability to lie herself out of any given situation would be far more suitable for these kind of circumstances… Or maybe you and I should reconsider switching positions..."

"Ilsa, we've already discussed this. Unless you've got a hidden past that includes extensive experience with firearms and shootouts Ames is of far more use to Winston right now than you could ever be. " Guerrero paused a moment before adding "Chance's life depends on you pulling this off." Originally he had wanted to add "Fail and we'll switch positions afterwards", but they were past that point in their relationship.

Knowing when threats are useful and when they aren't separates the pros from the amateurs.

Not giving her a chance to raise further objections he climbed into the trunk of the rental, only slightly inhibited by the handcuffs he was already wearing, and pulled it shut.

… … …

_An empty warehouse on the outskirts of Boston._

"We always thought Guerrero was a man", the client said.

"It's a marketing strategy... dude… Even in my line of business men get paid more and since I usually avoid meeting my clients in person…." Hoping he would buy this, Ilsa chained Guerrero to a chair. The look on his face said _"Dude?"_ _Are you kidding me?_

Ilsa shrugged helplessly._ I was aiming at "authentic". _

"We also thought the secretary who foolishly tried to blackmail us was a woman", the client continued.

"You should consider hiring a life coach or something. Recent studies indicate that thinking in stereotypes influences business decisions negatively." Desperately trying to hide her trembling fingers, she started to unbutton Guerrero's shirt.

"Ilsa", Guerrero hissed, "torturers don't make sure the shirt doesn't take any damage during the procedure. TEAR it open!"

Ilsa pulled at the fabric and managed to cause several buttons to come off.

Stunned, she froze in mid-motion.

She had seen Chance' s bare chest several times up close, usually in various stages of injury after some kind of explosion, exchange of gunfire or close combat fight, but never Guerrero's. It was covered with a net of horrifying scars. And stunningly muscular.

What Guerrero wanted to say was "Once we're done with this you can have a full night to admire my chest and other body parts", just to get his mind off Chance who was in mortal danger while he was trying to pull a stunt with everything depending on their still field inexperienced boss. He bit it back, however. Not the time to put Ilsa at unease even further. "The clamps", he quietly instructed her. "And don't hesitate while putting them on."

"I want the material's exact location", the client told her, but Ilsa was only half-listening. Putting metal clamps on Guerrero's nipples had just made it to the top of her top ten list of things she thought she'd never do. It felt oddly intimate and very wrong… she had thought she had been through the worst when she had climbed out of the sewage system in Washington, but _this_ – with the possibility of having to go through with Plan B looming on the horizon - was just as horrible, only on a different level.

"At least it can't get worse than this", she tried to calm herself.

Oh Ilsa, haven't you learned anything from the past few months? It can _always _get worse. Just wait and see.

Electroshocks were easy to fake. All it took was a flat automobile battery and a little bit of acting talent on Guerrero's side. But Winston had said he needed thirty minutes to set up the trap. Thirty minutes were too long to rely on mock electric torture alone. They would have to give them the whole nine yards and maybe even more. Ilsa tried not to dwell on that possibility.

Merely thinking of Plan B made her stomach turn.

"I've got a transportable tub in my car, could someone get it for me?", she asked, once the electric torture thing was getting old.

Way too quickly two thugs came back with it, filled to the rim with ice-cold water.

They had talked this through before. Guerrero would fake weakness due to excessive appliance of electroshocks. She would push him on his knees and immerse his head in the water, holding him by the neck. This was important since Guerrero would relax his neck muscles as long as he was okay and tighten them when he was seriously running out of oxygen. The challenge for her was to grip him not too tight and not too loosely – in both cases she wouldn't feel his neck muscles properly.

"Hurry up, Winston!", Ilsa silently urged as she dunked Guerrero's head for the second time. "Talk!", she bellowed at Guerrero. "Talk!"

Guerrero blinked once.

The signal to move on to the next stage. Which had caused her a serious nightmare in the few hours of sleep she had had before coming here, by the way. But at least it wasn't Plan B yet.

Ilsa pulled Guerrero back onto the chair, took a deep breath and faked a punch to his face, using a hidden blade to leave a tiny cut above his right eyebrow. They had practiced that for hours, with more than a dozen oranges. If she cut too deeply, she could permanently damage one of his nerves; if the cut was too shallow, it would have no effect.

Turned out, all the practicing was worth something.

Head wounds bleed spectacularly. As Guerrero's blood sprayed her face, Ilsa felt her stomach turn.

"Don't you dare throw up now!", Guerrero hissed, reading Ilsa's pale face correctly.

His voice called her back from the edge, reminded her that if she gave in to her emotions now, they'd all be dead.

Despite all the blood the client was getting impatient. So far he had let "Guerrero" work on "the secretary" alone in a far corner of the warehouse, only walking by occasionally, but for the past few minutes he had been staring at her intensely and now he was approaching her with determination in his stride.

No, no, no, she didn't want to switch to Plan B.

A quick glance told her that 25 minutes had passed. Still no word from Winston. The client, however, pulled up a chair, declaring he wanted to take a closer look at "the famous Guerrero's" work.

They couldn't talk with the client sitting so close, but they exchanged glances. Ilsa's was pleading. _Just a few more minutes._ Guerrero's was unyielding. _There's no other way. You've got to pull this off or Chance will die. _

"I need my tackle box from my car", Ilsa finally told one of the thugs who had brought the tub in. He was back in no time. Boy, what had the idiot been before he turned criminal? Short-distance runner?

"If you don't tell us where you stashed the material, I'll break your fingers, one by one." She showed Guerrero a pair of flat-nose pliers.

This, unfortunately, could not be faked. Guerrero had shown her how to produce a clean fracture, using thin bamboo sticks to demonstrate where to apply the pressure and she had practiced with a couple, but breaking a bamboo stick and breaking a human being's finger was worlds apart.

She looked him in the eyes and there was nothing but consent in it. Nevertheless she hesitated. She was holding his left index finger in the correct position, but just couldn't bring herself to go ahead and do it.

Guerrero tensed. The client was watching her every move. At the moment it still looked to him as if she was giving "the secretary" the last opportunity to spill the beans, but a few more moments of doing nothing and he would catch on.

And in that case… Chance…

Ilsa wanted nothing more than to get up and just leave, but as the trip to Washington had taught her, in this line of business there was no bailing out.

Drawing on every piece of courage she had she grabbed Guerrero's index finger with the pliers, applied pressure and… someone started to clap.

"Congratulations", said a male, slightly accented voice. Out of the shadows stepped a young man, apparently of Asian origin. "Really nice show, Mrs. Pucci. I'm impressed with how smoothly Mr. Chance's team works together…."

Ilsa's phone began to vibrate.

"Ah, that'll be Mr. Winston, telling you that he has set up the trap. God, I love good team work."

Ilsa, slowly realizing that she wouldn't have to hurt Guerrero after all, took a deep breath and was just about to ask the young man what the hell was going on, when Guerrero's foot lightly tapped her ankle in a gesture of warning.

"Don't say anything", he hissed. His face was a stony mask. "It's the Crane."


	58. Chapter 58

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_The warehouse. _

They had debated whether to meet the Crane or not and finally decided, since he had gone to great lengths to get in contact with them, they should at least listen to what he had to say. But not in Boston. On their own turf. And without Ilsa or Ames present.

Ilsa wasn't exactly keen on meeting the Crane anyway, she'd never be able to look at tools without a cold shiver down her spine again, thank you very much. Ames, however, was a different story. She still wasn't a hundred percent and they didn't want her in the same room with one of the world's most dangerous assassins. But how to keep her away from the meeting without hurting her feelings? She hated any implication that she wasn't alright.

To everyone's surprise Ilsa volunteered to take care of the matter. When inquired how, she smiled like an Egyptian cat – "It's a women's thing. You wouldn't understand."

Guerrero wagered fifty bucks with Winston that she'd take her to an expensive haircutter. "Chicks always cut their hair when they want to start all over again."

Winston said she'd only dye her hair, she was too proud of her long mane. Chance didn't want to take part. He was in a strangely somber mood ever since the Ames/heart ordeal.

Anyway, Ilsa and Ames were not present when the men met up with the Crane roughly 24 hours after they had left Boston.

"Never pictured you as the flower type", the Crane told Chance, taking in the office's appearance.

Ever since Alejandro had found out that Ames wasn't living at their house anymore, he had started sending her flowers to the office, pretty much turning it into a florist's. The daily deliveries had become so regular to all of them by now, Guerrero had started incorporating them into his security measurements, one day greeting them with the following instructions: "There's a machete hidden in the floor vase next to the elevator. The vase next to Winston's desk contains liquid acid, so be careful with it. And the red rose in the middle of the bouquet by the window is no rose, the stem is made of barbed wire."

"So the whole ordeal in Boston, fake client, fake threat and all was set up by you to test our abilities?", Chance asked, offering him a cup of coffee which he, naturally, declined.

Before the Crane could answer his question, however, Chance's attention was drawn to Guerrero who had just fished a white plastic bowl out of the fridge. "That's Ames' home made face pack", Chance warned him.

"The cucumber one?" Guerrero lifted the bowl's lid, sniffed at its content, took a fork from a drawer and started eating it. At the shocked faces of the others, he looked up. "What? Mashed cucumber and yoghurt, no artificial additives. Perfect snack. Got to watch my cholesterol." He gave Winston a pointed look.

"Ames, that's the girl you've got running with you, right? The thief? Is she living here? Are you two an item?" The Crane suddenly looked rather stern. Office affairs were very unprofessional.

"She's just…" Chance hesitated, unsure about the word choice. _Staying here? Living here?_ No one had really addressed this issue yet. After they had held her captive to make sure she didn't kill herself, she simply hadn't gone home. Ilsa had collected some of her clothes and other items from her house, but she hadn't set a foot back in there. Instead she had pretty much moved into the office's guestroom.

Chance wasn't sure yet what to make of this. He had lived with Guerrero for longer periods of time when on a complicated job, but aside from that he was not used to having a flat mate. And surely not to one who left her dark red bra and panties in the washing machine where they dyed his complete white underwear pink because he had thrown in his stuff without looking. But aside from that… Ames needed time to get over the things she had been through lately and if that meant he had to wear pink underwear, so be it.

"We aren't an item", he told the Crane. "So what is all this about?"

The Crane placed three items on the kitchen table. The first one was a badly damaged circuit board, the second the photograph of a completely trashed room and the third a bottling jar with a hacked off finger floating in some sort of chemical fluid.

"A friend of mine is about to take over his family's business – a huge pharmaceutical company. He wants to start with a splash – the announcement that his scientists developed an anti-flu remedy. Apparently it's fantastic stuff, better than everything that's momentarily on the market."

"But someone doesn't like the idea…" Chance pointed at the items one by one. "Part of a bomb that blew up some lab or research center? Destroyed lab? Finger of the murdered head of the research department or some other important scientist?"

"All we could find of one the project's most capable researchers", the Crane nodded. "I've gone through everything, but I can't find the perpetrator and I'm running out of time. The date for the new research center's inauguration party with all the scientists and company bigwigs is set…"

"Perfect moment to strike…", Guerrero mused.

"My friend, the remedy, his whole company needs protection. Can't do that alone", the Crane said. "I need your help."

Winston snorted, along with Guerrero. They both broke off in mid-snort and stared at each other. Jinx?

"Why should we help you, of all people? Last time we met you were trying to kill Chance", Winston pointed out.

"This remedy", the Crane replied thoughtfully, "might make the world a better place. And that's kind of your line of business, isn't it?"

_**A/N: I won't be around for the next three days, so no new updates till Thursday, sorry...**_


	59. Chapter 59

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_The newly built research center; the night before inauguration. _

It was decided that Chance and the Crane would work directly inside the new research center while the team set up HQ in the nearest hotel, working on the "context" side of things.

"Bet you're grateful to get away", the Crane grinned at Chance as they started searching the building floor to floor. "Are they always like that?"

Winston and Guerrero had squabbled all day over who would get the pot after Ames had shown up with dyed _and _cut hair.

"Worse", Chance replied, but couldn't suppress a smile, a fact which of course didn't escape the Crane's notice.

"Tight-knit teams like yours are rare", he said. The look on his face implied he was speaking from experience.

Chance chose not to inquire any further. Guerrero – knowing his friend – had warned him urgently not to try and make the Crane one of the good guys by offering him a job with them. "There's this rumor he killed his last crew." After seeing the expression on the Crane's face Chance wondered if there was more to the story, but there was a job to concentrate on first.

The research center was still empty, but from tomorrow morning onwards it would be buzzing with people getting everything ready for the all-important inauguration party in the evening. The Crane's friend was planning to announce the development of the new anti-flu remedy during his speech. If the threat was sent by a competitor he definitely had to strike sometime before that announcement.

All the staff was already on the premises, accommodated in the adjacent guest house and office building after having gone through a severe security procedure including a thorough background check. No last minute substitutes or additions, the Crane had been adamant about this. Unfortunately that policy, pursued for weeks, made it impossible for Chance's team to infiltrate. The Crane couldn't bring in a new waitress etc. now after weeks of forbidding exactly that. This sudden change of opinion would surely tip the threat off and blow the team members' covers in no time.

The only one who would get in was Ilsa – a generous amount of newly acquired stocks had gotten her (but _only_ her) a spot on the guest list. The woman in charge of the guests was just as paranoid as the Crane. Well, no surprise everybody was a bit shaken after the explosion of the old research center and the scientist's murder.

While the men were slowly going from floor to floor, outside night had fallen.

"So I remain hidden throughout the party and keep an eye on the monitors?", Chance confirmed one more time. He was a bit more on edge than usual. It was strange working without Winston's and Guerrero's voices in his ear. The premises were protected with a jammer, the earpieces didn't work.

The Crane nodded and led Chance past a huge metallic door.

"What's behind that?"

"The place where all the company's secrets are kept. The door is protected with biometric locks. After the scientist was murdered we drastically changed the number of people with clearance for this room. Now only my friend and his father, the current CEO, can get in, via retina scan. It's a giant vault, steel walls, no openings, neither windows nor air vents."

The center was eerily quiet, but that was actually an advantage. That way the men's finely tuned senses could perceive the slightest noise, for example the very soft hiss of the elevator's doors opening and closing right on the floor they were currently searching. Chance and the Crane drew their weapons and slowly approached the far end of the corridor where the lift was located.

Smooth like panthers, they rounded the last corner in unison. "Hold it!", the Crane shouted, only to continue: "Oh no, Isamu, what are you doing here?"

A small Asian boy, eight or nine maybe, was standing in the middle of the corridor, looking pretty crestfallen. "I'm sorry", he whispered, hanging his head in shame.

The Crane sighed. "Isamu is the kid of one of the waitresses. He loves elevators. I told him he could ride this one – as long as the building isn't in active use, he can't disturb anyone."

Chance was surprised at this explanation. On the one hand the Crane put so much emphasis on strict security measurements, on the other hand he let a small boy _play_ in here? Why was he cutting him so much slack? Strange.

"But I think I also told you to go in the morning, when the carpenters are busy here. I never permitted you to go here alone, in the dead of night", the Crane reprimanded the boy.

"This morning the elevator was out of order", the boy mumbled, staring at his shoes. "Mom was still working and I was so bored…"

"I'll bring you back to your mother", the Crane said. "Could you wait here till I come back?", he asked Chance.

So he didn't want him to meet the boy's mother? Very interesting… Chance nodded in agreement. He watched the man and the boy thoughtfully as they disappeared into the elevator. They were both of Asian origin and the boy…

Something else suddenly tugged at Chance's attention. Something Isamu had said. The elevator had been out of order this morning? Apparently the Crane hadn't known that or he wouldn't have allowed the child to…

According to the display, the Crane and the boy had reached the first floor by now. Chance called the elevator back up and stepped in. Carefully he looked at the cabin's shiny panels.

There.

Tiny scratches on one wall.

Someone had worked on one of the panels…removed it? Chance carefully worked on the metal plate in question with the tool kit he'd borrowed from Guerrero. Loosening it took several minutes, but it was worth the effort – blinking at him as he took the panel off the wall was what Chance and the Crane had been looking for all evening: A bomb, meant to detonate during the party. Putting it into an elevator was quite reasonable – ignited at the right moment, it could destroy half the building.

Whoever had made this thing, however, hadn't known much about bombs. It was fairly simply built, easy to understand and unproblematic to defuse. You could find plans for these on the internet.

Chance took a deep breath, wondered briefly if this was some sort of trap, decided to trust his gut feeling and pulled the red cord.

The bomb's lights went out.

He had defused it. Wow. Talk about piece of cake.

Chance almost expected some new lights to start blinking or the elevator to begin moving on its own or something like that, but nothing. Looked like this was really it. He pressed the down button and wondered what the Crane would say to this pretty unsophisticated device.

Halfway down to the first floor, he heard it.

Gunfire.

A shootout.

Damn - the boy! What if the Crane had gotten caught in an ambush with the boy?

And besides that, being in an elevator with someone outside shooting is one of the worst places possible – nowhere to take cover.

As the elevator's doors slid open, Chance used the wall panel he had removed to get to the bomb as a make-shift shield. Luckily it wasn't put to the test. Whoever had shot outside was already gone when the elevator with Chance halted.

Not so lucky, however, had the Crane been. He was lying right in front of the doors, blood streaming from a horrible chest wound. "The boy?", Chance asked, crouching by his side.

"With his mom", came the hoarse, gurgled reply. He was choking on his blood. As he opened his mouth to add something, he couldn't speak a word.

Both the Crane and Chance had seen enough people die to know when it was too late.

Chance pulled him in a cradle position, holding him tight, trying to make it somehow easier for him. To his utter surprise, the Crane relaxed. There was no struggling, no fighting for just one more breath… he was fixating some point in the distance, staring at it, and his expression changed from painful to wide-eyed fascination. A smile, blood-smeared and all, but still a smile, appeared on his face.

Then his whole body slumped and Chance knew he was dead.

What in the world…? Chance couldn't stop staring at the dead assassin in his arms.

Was that really peace he was seeing in his face?

_Peace?_


	60. Chapter 60

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_A bar in a small town about an hour from the research center, roughly around the same time the Crane and Chance started searching the building. _

"Whoa, girl! I almost didn't recognize you!" Brody jumped off the bar stool and dashed towards Ames, hugging her tightly. "Let me take a look." He spun her around. "Your beautiful hair… but this suits you, makes you look all grown up, and new clothes, too... You're becoming a real lady… " He looked at her face and froze. "You definitely grew up. What happened?"

Ames shook her head, not meeting his eyes. "Everything is fine, Brody."

"Hey!" He reached out and lightly pushed her chin upwards so that she was forced to look him in the face. "Anyone who touches my sister has to deal with me! So whom shall I beat up?"

She couldn't help but smile… it was as if they were back in that awful foster home, where the foster mother had forced them to play outside till darkness fell, no matter the weather or season, so she could smoke her joints in peace. They spent a lot of time on a decrepit playground and Brody picked fights with everyone who dared trying to bully Ames. More than once, however, it had been Ames who had to jump in and rescue his ass from getting severely beaten.

She would have never thought it, but she actually wished things could be as easy as that once more.

"I need your help", she told him, reached into her purse and showed him the circuit board the Crane had brought them.

Brody made an impressed whistling sound. "Where did you get _that_ from?"

"Long story", Ames replied, handing the board over to him. He took it with an expression that spoke of awe.

"That, girl, is a circuit board from the most sophisticated military detonator you can get right now. Best stuff available! Extremely hard to defuse, it's very important to follow a complicated order of steps, otherwise: Kaboom!"

Ames immediately realized what this meant: If whoever blew up the old research center had used this thing for his bomb, it was quite likely he'd do it again, wasn't it? She knew Chance and the Crane were searching the new research center right now. What if they found a new bomb?

"Tell me how to defuse it."

Brody shook his head. "Can't. The company who builds these things keeps it a secret. You buy one of these, they hand an instruction over to you, but it hasn't been leaked so far. Only military institutions are allowed to buy them, probably that's why."

"So the only way to get one of those instructions would be to break into a military base?" Ames had been worried before, but this was really bad news.

Brody, however, smiled. "It's not as difficult as you think, sis." He reached into his collar and showed her – she couldn't believe her eyes – _dog tags_.

_"You joined the military?"_ And there was Ames thinking the complicated-to-defuse detonator had been bad news. "With your criminal record?"

"I had a friend who owed me a favor. He got me a new ID and I signed in. It's not that they're looking very closely right now…Gonna see the world soon!"

Ames had to press her hand to her mouth. "Iraq?"

"Off I go", he said. And his eyes were actually twinkling… "But before that I help you to get that defusing instruction. I've seen bombs with these kind of detonators at our base, so the instruction must be kept in the commander's safe. Think you can crack it if I get you into his office?"

Ames nodded, 'course she could. And in the back of her mind another plan formed. A plan to safe Brody.

He got her into the commander's office alright. The safe wasn't exactly a piece of cake to crack, but, as Ames had told Guerrero at their very first meeting, she was good at cracking safes. It probably would have gone faster, however, had she not battled a severe conscience problem simultaneously. Should she really? What she was about to do would hurt Brody, definitely. She'd betray his trust and she'd make his life miserable.

_But he would live._

For the first time since the team had held her captive to prevent her from killing herself she truly had an idea what they must have gone through before making the decisions they had made. She had thought things had been easy for them – a taser, a couple of restraints, a ton of well-meant yadda yadda sermons…

She had been wrong.

Nothing had been easy.

Just as they stepped out of the commander's office, Ames tripped the alert. On purpose. Yes, on purpose. She also grabbed Brody on purpose and pushed him right into the area the security cam which they had so carefully avoided on their way in, covered. They definitely got an up close shot of him.

"What the hell are you doing?", he shouted, but there was no time to clear the matter – running footsteps, wailing sirens… They fled the base and escaped by a hair's breadth.

"WHAT THE HELL HAVE YOU DONE?", Brody shouted at her as they raced away from the base. "You've just made me a fugitive! That was my ticket to a proper life! An honest life! Isn't that what you've been preaching all along?"

"It would have been your ticket to death!" Ames replied through clenched teeth. His accusations hurt as if he was actually hitting her. And of course her conscience was raging, too. She had just, with a simple shove, condemned Brody, HER Brody, to a life on the run. But better a life on the run than no life…

Or?

She dropped him off at an old contact of hers who'd help him in the first few days. "I'll send you money", she told him before she drove off, feeling hunted herself.

"Shove it up your ass!", he bellowed after her.

Back at the hotel where they had set up HQ she didn't tell them about her extra escapade with Brody. The detonator issue was complicated enough.

Having the instruction was one thing, getting it to Chance was a totally different story, given how hermetically sealed the research center's premises were.

"Thanks to the jammer we've got no way to contact Chance and hand the instruction over to him prior to the party", Winston said, frowning deeply. "If they discover a bomb with that detonator before the party and try to defuse it …" He didn't even want to think about that possibility. "Once the party begins Ilsa would be an option, but all guests will be searched thoroughly at the entrance. No chance to smuggle a memory stick in, or even plain paper…"

"Unless we hide the instruction in plain sight", Guerrero replied, a small grin forming on his face. "Ilsa, we need to go shopping."


	61. Chapter 61

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_The hotel/HQ near the research center._

Ilsa closed her eyes, turned off the shower and concentrated on the last few drops of water running down her naked body. She stood still for quite a while, till goose bumps started crawling up her arm.

Or were it goose bumps?

Why was she so nervous about this? She had definitely been through worse, hadn't she?

Taking a deep breath, she stepped out of the shower, carefully dried her skin off and put on the evening gown she had bought at Guerrero's suggestion. It was made of dark blue silk, generous décolleté, very low cut in the back.

"Suits our purpose", Guerrero had said, but she had seen the gleam in his eyes when he had picked it.

_Nice dress. _

It rustled as she walked over to the door and entered the adjacent hotel room. To her surprise it was empty, but the bed was already prepared: Guerrero had spread a cheap tablecloth over the sheets, placed several shallow bowls on it and a collection of applicators. Unsure what to do, Ilsa walked over to the edge of the bed and sat down.

She didn't hear him coming in, no moving of the door, nothing. Had he been waiting in one of the corners, hiding? Heavens, why did he always have to spook people? She felt the mattress dip behind her as he joined her on the bed.

"Relax", he told her. "No need to hold your breath." His calloused palm on her neck, resting there. Why? To keep her still? It was not that he was going to hurt her, was he? So why restrain her? But he always needed to be in control.

She had expected the first touch of the applicator to her skin to be cold and squishy wet, like the sensation of a sticky snail creeping forward. To her utter surprise it felt much more like a light breeze, a whisper, a – what a silly metaphor – promise in the dead of night.

Guerrero's hand slid down her bare back to the point where he was applying the henna, stretching the skin a little with his thumb and index finger. His fingertips felt raw, like the palm of his hand, but his touch wasn't. Almost gently his strokes slowly wandered upwards along her spine, taking curvy detours here and there.

Ilsa briefly wondered where Ames and Winston had gone, but as the silence of the room slowly covered them like – another silly metaphor – a thin veil, she gradually felt her thoughts trickle away, leaving nothing on her mind but peaceful blankness, in the background hers and Guerrero's soft breathing like waves washing against an ocean's shore.

His hands slightly gripping her shoulder tenderly called her back from this trance-like state. "I need you to turn around", he told her.

Some time not too long ago she had been nervous about this particular moment, had imagined his cold killer hands so close to where she hadn't allowed anybody but Marshall for so many years, and the thought had sent shivers down her spine, but now… this felt natural, right, true.

With one last stroke, Guerrero finished his work. "Come on", he said. "You might want to see this." He helped her up and led her to the full-length mirror on the other side of the room.

Ilsa glanced at it, froze, her gaze turned into a mesmerized stare, she started turning around, once, twice… "Did y_ou_ design the dragon on Chance's and your shoulder?", she asked incredulously. The long string of Japanese Kanji he had painted on her back and décolleté formed a dragon like the one these two sported on their skin, curled up tail and all, just a lot bigger.

"Long story", Guerrero grinned.

… … …

_The research center, evening. _

Ilsa made it into the building without any problems. She was searched thoroughly, but just as Guerrero had guessed, nobody was able to read the Japanese signs on her skin. Of course she earned a few raised eyebrows, Ilsa Pucci with a giant henna tattoo? But since she was a billionaire and everybody knew billionaires tended to be eccentric, nobody became really suspicious.

All she had to do now was find a spot where she was in plain sight of one of the security cams and hope Chance would see Guerrero's work. The dessert table looked very promising – a camera was attached right above it and since most guests were still busy with the main dishes that were offered, she'd have room to present her "tattoo" without anyone interfering.

Pretending to be taking her time with choosing between the various mousses, puddings, sorbets, she bent over the table to present Chance with a perfect view of her lower back, where the instruction of how to defuse the detonator began. To her utter surprise, between mousse au chocolat and champagne sorbet, a pair of eyes was looking at her through a small rift between two tables.

A child's pair of eyes, dark and sorrowful.

"So many different desserts, quite tempting, isn't it?", Ilsa asked gently, already plotting how to hand the little boy a plate of ice-cream without attracting too much attention.

"I'm looking for a friend", the boy said. "He brought me home to my mom yesterday evening and I haven't seen him ever since. He's in charge of security. He should be here."

He sounded terribly sad.

"I'm sure you'll find him", Ilsa tried to console him. "If he's security he'll be in touch with a friend of mine. I'll ask him as soon as I see him."

… … ...

_A tiny room above the research center's main hall, stuffed with monitors. _

Chance couldn't believe his eyes. An instruction how to defuse a certain type of detonator, painted on Ilsa's skin! This time Guerrero had really outdone himself.

For this could only have come from Guerrero, Winston would have never suggested anything that involved Ilsa's bare skin.

But why had they gone through so much trouble to get this instruction to him? He had already defused a bomb, and it had been an easy one. He had also searched the whole building twice after, to be on the safe side. No other bombs.

Unless…

Oh damn…

He began jotting down the instruction, hoping Ilsa wouldn't turn around before he'd written it down completely.


	62. Chapter 62

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_The research center._

If the team had gone through so much trouble to get the instruction to him they either had proof that there was a second bomb hidden in the building or they at least strongly suspected it. A bomb with a very sophisticated detonator. It made a lot of sense: The other one had been way too easy to discover and defuse. Classis diversionary tactic.

A second bomb. Yes, Chance definitely shared his team's opinion.

And aside from that, he had a pretty good idea where it might be hidden. The Crane's voice, explaining something about biometric locks and steel walls, sprung to his mind.

Damn.

He should have never let that go. What had he been thinking? It was the perfect place...

The second he was finished taking notes he stuffed them into his pocket and dashed out of the room. Forcing himself to walk slowly as soon as he reached the party guests packed main hall was hard. He had the nagging feeling that time was pressing. If there was a bomb it was surely set to explode before the CEO-to-be made his big announcement. Nevertheless he couldn't race through the crowd, not if he didn't want to cause unrest that would alert the security staff who, mind you, had no idea who he was – the Crane had kept his involvement a secret to make the threat feel safe.

Talk about a plan backfiring…

"Your friend hired me to assist him!", Chance tried to explain to the young business hotshot that was soon to take over the reins of his family's business.

"Tsuru needing someone to _assist_ him? Nice try, but he always works alone." He nodded towards his bodyguards, indicating that they should take care of the stranger who was trying to intrude on his big moment. "If you'll excuse me now, my father asked for a moment to talk before the announcement…" He was practically beaming, obviously expecting a lasting father-son moment in which he would be told how proud he was making the family. Oh, how he had worked for this!

Chance could have tried one more time, could have told the young man about the mock case his friend the Crane – Tsuru – had created to test him and his team, he could have told him about the events on the freighter with Baptiste… But, as said above, time was pressing, the bodyguards were approaching… all in all the situation called for a more direct approach.

With one fluid movement Chance drew his gun and seized the young man with a chokehold. "There's a bomb in this building", he yelled. "Everybody out!"

One of the bodyguards lunged at him, but Chance smoothly evaded the maneuver and pressed his gun to the man's temple. "One wrong move and he's dead!" He dragged him backwards, away from the bodyguards and the turmoil of the panicking party guests.

"Where are we going?", his captive yelled.

"The only place where I couldn't look last night!" Chance pulled him into one of the elevators.

... ... ...

Ilsa was carried outside with the current of fleeing party guests. Despite the chaos all around her she felt relieved. The message had gotten through!

She was just about to walk away, as far from the building as possible, ready to concentrate on worrying about Chance, when a terrible sound caught her attention. Above all the screaming and shouting of confused people, one high-pitched yell could be heard over and over.

"ISAMU! ISAMU!" A young woman in a waitress dress tried to make her way through the crowd in the opposite direction, desperately fighting to get into the building instead of out. "My son! Has anyone seen my son?" Ilsa caught her by the arm as she was trying to struggle past her.

"Eight or nine years old, blue T-shirt?", she asked.

"That's him!"

Could it be that the boy from the dessert table was still in the building? Maybe even still under the table? Children react differently to threats than adults. Firemen often had to rescue kids from underneath beds etc. because they thought they were safe there….

"I've seen him!", Ilsa told the woman. It was too complicated to explain where the boy was hiding – they were running out of time. She squeezed the woman's arm in what she hoped was a reassuring gesture and dashed back into the building as fast as she could. Thankfully by now most guests had escaped and she could move easier through the thinning crowd.

... ... ...

A few floors above her, Chance was facing complications of his own.

"I'm not going to open this door for you!", the young man insisted. "I'm not going to grant you access to my company's most valuable secrets!"

"You had your chance", Chance replied, shrugging, and knocked the man's head against the wall next to the biometric keypad of the room he and the Crane had passed by during their inspection of the building. Grabbing him violently by the hair he forced his face in front of the retina scanner and used his thumb to open one of his captive's eyelids. "Do you really want to lose an eyeball over this?", he asked, making sure he felt his fingernails pressing and scraping dangerously close to his left globe.

No, predictably he didn't. This was something Chance had learned from Guerrero almost a lifetime ago: Eyeballs were sacred to almost everybody.

The door slid open. "Oh my God", the young man gasped, seeing the sizeable amount of C4 placed right in the center of the room.

"So are you now going to help me?", Chance asked him.

... ... ...

Inside, the building was almost deserted. Ilsa had no problem getting to the dessert section. Unfortunately it didn't look as if the boy was still there. In their panic, the guests had knocked over the tables. Shattered porcelain and spilt food was spread all over the place.

"Isamu?", Ilsa tried cautiously, stumbling over the foreign word.

She almost didn't hear his reply. There he lay, caught under a broken piece of furniture, covered by a once-white table cloth.

"Something is wrong with my foot", he said. "It's hurting."

Ilsa winced as she caught sight of it: Judging from the angle, it was broken. "I'm going to carry you outside on my back", she told him.

... ... ...

Even to Chance, the amount of C4 was a little bit unsettling.

"The alternative would be to make sure everyone has left the building and let the thing explode", Chance told the CEO-to-be. "There are still five minutes left on the timer."

"And lose the results of years of research?" The young man shook his head. "This anti-flu remedy could change the world. No way I'm going to let go of it just like that!"

"Then let's go to work", Chance sighed and handed his notes to his ex-captive.

... ... ...

The boy was quite heavy. They got out a lot faster, however, after Ilsa decided to get rid of her high heels. Another pair going to hell thanks to a job… she should really stop spending a fortune on them…

The mother was overflowing with happiness when she got hold of her son. "He'll need medical treatment", Ilsa told her.

"Thank you so much", said the woman, and the boy nodded, too, before studying her with a strange, thoughtful expression on his face. "You've got an interesting tattoo on your back", he finally said.

"It's a very long story", Ilsa replied, not quite sure how to explain.

There was nothing to explain however, for the boy didn't inquire any further. Instead he had surprising information for her. "There's only one Kanji in it that doesn't make sense", he told her.

Not sure what he was talking about, Ilsa asked him to explain. He tugged at her dress so she would turn around, then gestured to his mother to lift him up again. "This one here." He cautiously touched a spot on her shoulder blade, right above her heart. "That Kanji says "kizuna". It means "bond" or "tie", between friends or family. I don't understand what it's doing in this text."

"I do", Ilsa replied slowly. "I do."

... ... ...

Back in the research center, Chance and the young CEO finished the last step of the defusing process.

The building didn't explode.


	63. Chapter 63

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_The research center, the room with the now defused bomb._

"This amount of C4…" The young man couldn't stop staring at the explosives. "You don't smuggle this much into a building under a jacket. Especially not with the security measurements Tsuru had set up… and how did it get in _here_, of all places?"

"If you're honest with yourself, you already know the answer", Chance replied quietly. He hated moments like that, breaking the news to a client that a very near and dear one had betrayed him. He'd rather take another round with the bomb instead.

"This is just not possible. Why should he…?"

The room's steel doors slid open and the CEO-to-be let the sentence trail off.

"Because you were on the verge of doing something terrible", his father, the old CEO, said.

Chance wondered if he should leave the two alone, but there was still the possibility that the old man would try so set off the bomb after all. And this bulk under his jacket… the CEO was armed. He decided to stay, his gun at the ready.

The son was lost for words.

"You don't understand, do you?", the father said softly. "This anti-flu remedy you developed… you used bio-hacking to make it. Discovered a whole new method of manipulating viruses. You're using it for a good cause, but once the method becomes public… it could easily be turned into one of the most terrible weapons ever, right along with the nuclear bomb."

Chance suddenly felt very cold. All the relief he had felt when the bomb was defused had disappeared. Was it true what the old man was saying?

"Why didn't you just talk to me…?" The young man was devastated.

The father shook his head. "If I had known what you were doing, I'd have stopped you years ago. But you were so keen on proving yourself to me, on impressing me… you used your own sponsors, your own money for your funding and kept your results secret from me, all to…create a splash… "

Chance tried to calm himself, tried to think clearly. Had he just helped to move the world a little closer to destruction?

"You killed Tsuru over this…" The son was crying by now.

"If you let this remedy out on the market, he'll have been only the first victim in a long, long line."

For a long moment, silence reined.

Chance weighed his options and realized he had none. There was nothing he could do to stop the young man from making the remedy public. All he could do was hope that the father's words got through to him. All the effort, all the danger, all the death… the scientist, the Crane… This was ridiculous in its senselessness.

The son got up. "You totally lost it. Because of the vague possibility that someone might use the remedy for something bad you were willing to kill hundreds of people?"

"There will be hundreds of thousands, should that "vague possibility" become a reality."

Chance looked from one to the other and felt the urge to rub his hands together, he felt so cold.

Nothing he could do…

Who of the two was right? He felt incredibly lost. Part of him actually wished the old man would try and set off the bomb after all. The look of peace on the Crane's face kept coming back to him. He got up and walked out of the room.

_Peace. _

He was almost at the elevator when he heard a gunshot. He didn't go back to check what had happened. Instead he stepped into the cabin, realizing that he needed to find the boy and explain to his mother what had happened to the Crane. Unless, of course….

But the building didn't explode.

He went to find Isamu.

… … …

_San Francisco. The warehouse. A couple of days later. _

Chance had remained behind at the research center to help the boy Ilsa had rescued and his mother with getting started into a new life. Guerrero wasn't quite sure why, but Chance would tell him eventually.

Anyway, Chance's absence had given him time to finally use the program he had installed on the office's computer and feed it with the test result he had gotten from one of his contacts. At first nothing alarming had popped up, but Guerrero wouldn't have been Guerrero, hadn't he dug deeper.

In hindsight, he wished he hadn't.

The information had shown up an hour ago, and he still couldn't stop staring at it, as if it would somehow go away again.

Oh damn.

This was … bad?

A totally alien thought crept up in his mind.

He needed to talk to Winston about this.

... … …

Chance felt immeasurably tired when he stepped out of the office's elevator. All his limbs felt like lead. Being with Isamu and his mother had been hard. The boy was devastated when he found out his friend was dead and the woman couldn't stop crying. Aside from this the news came through that the old CEO of the pharmaceutical company had died in an "accident" in the safe room of the new research center. Rumor had it that he had committed suicide, but Chance suspected he had gone for the bomb after all and the son had somehow managed to get hold of his father's gun.

Whatever was going to come out of this in the end, it was out of his hands and that thought, together with the recent discoveries he'd made about the Crane's personal life, added to the deep feeling of complete senselessness he had been carriying with him ever since the defusing of the bomb. What was he doing all that for? He thought of Ames, trying to save her brother, trying to give her life a meaning.

_Peace. _

The sounds of a TV caught his attention. Ames, upstairs in his living-room. He'd almost forgotten she was still – living? staying? – here.

"I thought you'd come back tomorrow", she smiled sheepishly as he walked in. "I hope you don't mind?", she asked, feet propped up on his coffee table, large bowl of popcorn in front of her.

"What's on?", he asked.

"Jersey shore is next", she munched.

He sat down by her side. For a while nobody said a word, then Ames quietly murmured: "I understand why you saved me."

Chance took a deep breath. "And I understand why you didn't want to be saved."

He looked so terribly forlorn, Ames reached out and pulled him into an embrace, like she would have embraced a child. He hesitated, struggled for a moment, then gave in. Hugged tightly in her arms, he watched Jersey Shore.

… … …

_Other end of the city, same time, a studio slightly resembling a dentist's office. _

Ilsa's hand hovered above the door handle for a moment. Should she really…? But then somebody from the inside – oh, it was the artist himself – had already noticed her arrival and there was no going back anymore.

"I'm glad you could find me an appointment on such short notice", she told him.

He smiled and led her to a room with two chairs, impressive looking equipment (again, not unlike a dentist's) and lots of pictures on the walls. "I feel honored you asked for my services, Mrs. Pucci. Now tell me, what can I do for you?"

She removed her jacked, revealing that she was wearing nothing but a top with spaghetti straps underneath. He took in the henna tattoo with professional admiration. "That's an awesome piece of work. Do you want me to conserve it?"

"Just one element." She took a picture out of her purse. It had taken her ages to draw it with the help of a mirror. "There's one sign on my shoulder blade which looks like this…"

He studied the picture that showed a single Kanji - **絆**

"I want to keep that one."

He nodded, motioned her to sit down and, after a moment of preparation, began to work.

As the tattooist's needle broke skin, the thinnest trickle of blood ran down her back.


	64. seven monks

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_**~ seven monks ~**_

_The warehouse, Chance's bedroom, very early morning. _

Chance saw himself walking down a dark alley, probably not far from the warehouse, in the dead of night. A tri-colored cat, sitting on an overflowing garbage can, watched him closely as he passed it by. He idly remembered that in some cultures these type of cats were seen as lucky charms.

He was alert, aware that danger was lurking in every corner. Nevertheless the shot surprised him. A single hit, right in the center of his chest. Not immediately lethal, but very dangerous. Chance sank to his knees, pressing one hand against the wound while firmly gripping his weapon with the other one. He was expecting a second shot, but all he could hear were footsteps, moving away fast.

He let go of his gun, just dropped it, not really caring where it went in the darkness.

Blood was rapidly seeping through his fingers now and he couldn't stay on his knees anymore. Groaning, more from a feeling of immense exhaustion than actual pain, he slumped to the ground. His breathing grew heavier, apparently his lungs were filling with fluid, blood, most likely. He should get his cell phone and call Winston or Guerrero. Or maybe an ambulance. They'd sort out the paperwork later, Guerrero was good at extinguishing paper trails, Winston could call in a couple of favors with his ex-colleagues, Ilsa could pay a bribe and if all else failed, Ames could seduce someone.

Strangely, however, he didn't feel like making any calls. He knew he was running out of time, oxygen supply was becoming an issue fast and his shirt was soaked with definitely too much blood to be healthy, but he did not feel the urge to reach out for help. In fact, he felt totally at peace with the situation. Above him the night sky, sparkling with stars for a change, not obscured by the typical San Francisco mist as usual…

He felt a bit cold, but there was no pain whatsoever except some dull throbbing underneath his hands. The silence around him covered him like a comforting blanket. This felt like some sort of gift, he didn't want it interrupted by screaming friends, hectic EMTs, an ambulance ride… everything was okay the way it was…

Yes, really, it was okay…

"Chance? Chance?" He opened his eyes to see Ames standing by the far end of his bed, tugging at his toes. "Sorry to wake you, but there's a guy downstairs who wants to talk to you. He says it's urgent."

"What guy?" Chance shook his head to chase the dream away.

"A monk", Ames replied. "Says he knows you from some case with a ring and a young man." She hesitated for a moment, looked at her shorts and skimpy t-shirt. "Uh, I better change."

... ... ...

Chance wasn't the only one with a strange dream very early in the morning that day. Only Winston's dream was less morbid.

It involved a train.

An old-fashioned steam locomotive, like they had used back in the days of the wild west. Winston saw himself standing at a railway track in the middle of the prairie, watching the approaching shiny black engine. The thing was damn loud! It's shrill whistle was ear-piercing, made him want to walk away. Only his feet somehow seemed to be stuck, he couldn't move. Quicksand? He started tossing and turning, panicky his eyes flew open…

He had entangled himself in his sheets, that's why he hadn't been able to move. Big sigh of relief.

Until he noticed that the whistle of the train was still there, that is.

He jerked upright, looked around. There was faint light in the hallway, coming from the kitchen. Just like the whistle. It was the whistle of a tea kettle.

The whistle of a tea kettle, in his kitchen, in the darkest hour of the morning? Winston dashed down the corridor and yanked the kitchen door open.

"WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING IN MY KITCHEN?" he yelled at Guerrero.

"Good morning to you, too, Winston", Guerrero said, unfazed of course. "Take a seat, need to talk to you."

Winston, confused and still a bit dazed from being woken up so suddenly and so early, was actually sitting down half-way before he realized he was following Guerrero's order and shot up again. "WHO DO YOU THINK…?"

He never got to finish the sentence.

"Need to show you something, dude", Guerrero said and turned the laptop he'd been working on around so Winston could see the display.

He opened his mouth to object at this blatant invasion of his privacy, Guerrero must have broken into his house, and of course he was eating the egg salad he had stashed away in the fridge yesterday evening – but then he realized what the information on the screen was saying and the words never came out.

"This is…"

Guerrero nodded.

"Are you sure? Really sure?"

Another nod. "This program is the best you can get. State of the art law enforcement software."

"How did you...?"

"Does it matter?" Guerrero watched Winston very closely.

"He doesn't know…"

A third nod. "Question is, do we tell him?"

Winston thought his ears were deceiving him. "How can we not? We're his friends, he needs to know!"

Guerrero took a long, thoughtful sip from his tea. "You know how he is. You know his issues. _This_ could send him over the edge for good. He's behaving rather strange lately already."

Now it was Winston's turn to nod. He had noticed Chance's uncharacteristically somber mood, too. Ever since the desaster with Ames and Alejandro.

Before they could discuss the matter any further, however, Guerrero's mobile signaled with a text message and a short time later Winston's started to ring. Chance's number on the display in both cases.

Winston answered his phone. "Abbot Stevens? Sure I remember him. I'm on my way. " He cut the connection and turned to Guerrero. "I agree with you that we can't rush this. Let's work this case and then decide what we do."

Together they left the house. Guerrero gave Winston a lift.

_**A/N: This story is loosely based on a true case. I changed a lot of elements, but something similar to this has really happened. I'm not writing it out of disrespect for the victims, actually it's the other way around. I wish they had had someone like Chance, seeing them as people, not as pawns in a struggle for power. **_


	65. Chapter 65

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_A tiny island close to the North African coast. _

It was twelve a clock am, but there was no ringing of the angelus bells.

The church door screeched in its hinges like a muffled cry of pain.

Bright sunlight was illuminating the colorful windows, painting spots on the worn stone floor.

Abbot Stevens had said the abbey church had been built in the late 19th century, when the monastery had been founded. Back then over fifty monks had lived here. Nowadays, after the end of the country's colonial days and several revolutions, one violent regime overthrowing another, only seven had remained.

Theoretically.

Chance bent down and examined the spots on the floor closer. Some were of dark red.

Dried blood.

He moved forward through the sacristy into the actual monastery, passing by several wooden doors that had obviously been forced open. Books and papers lay strewn everywhere, but no dead bodies, no puddles of blood and no bullet holes in the walls. Chance wasn't sure if that was a good sign.

The building was old and spartan, but well kept, at least till – what? A day or two ago? According to the calendar on the wall in the small refectory, less than 24 hours ago.

Damn, so close but still too late.

The monastery's thick old walls kept the stifling mid-day heat at bay, but the cool air that filled the deserted halls and corridors didn't feel comfortable. Something violent had happened here.

And aside from that, Chance had the nagging feeling he wasn't alone. A shadow was following him around, very quietly.

Maybe some of the monks had managed to hide?

Or maybe the attackers, whoever they were, had left a sentry behind.

Chance turned a corner, pretending to head towards the cloister garden, then made a sharp turn, ducked and lunged forward.

WHAM

He and his shadow crashed to the floor. A few seconds of helpless, desperate struggling, then Chance had pinned him to the floor. It was a boy of about 17, 18 years maybe. He wore the traditional clothes of the farmers around here and he was obviously furious, paying no heed whatsoever to the fact that someone had just overcome him.

"Who are you?", he spat. "What are you doing here?"

"Abbot Stevens, of the monastery's mother house, sent me to protect the monks and help them to get off the island safely. The latest rebellion on the mainland has left them in grave danger", Chance calmly explained.

"LIAR!", the boy roared. "They wouldn't leave! Never!"

In a way he was right. According to Abbot Stevens, the small monastery had been attacked several times during the last few decades, by various groups – freedom fighters, rebels, terrorists, plain robber bands, pirates… It had also been expropriated twice. The latest government, another corrupt dictatorship, had granted the monks to return to the monastery itself but kept the surrounding land. It was safe to say, they had been through a lot and never wavered. But in the light of several massacres on the mainland…

"Abbot Stevens ordered the monks to leave the monastery. Canonical law gives him the right to do that. The last thing we've heard was that two monks were willing to follow his orders, the rest refused. He asked me to bring at least these two home safely."

The boy rolled his eyes. "That must have been Brother Ambrosius and Brother Calixt. Brother Ambrosius likes to follow orders and Brother Calixt is afraid of everything. One day I saw him jump ten feet just because of a harmless scorpion."

Chance released him. "You're one of their students, aren't you? What's your name?"

"Everybody on the island is. They're the only teachers around here. The only doctors, too." He hesitated for a moment. "My name is Haroun", he finally added.

The monks' rather important place in the island's society was exactly the reason why the majority of them had wanted to stay. They felt the people here needed them. "What happened, Haroun?", Chance asked.

The boy shook his head. "I don't know. I'm living in the village down the road, I was sleeping on the roof and the wind carries sounds far across the island, but I didn't hear a thing. This morning the angelus bells weren't ringing, that's when I knew something was wrong. I came up here and found everything empty." He looked incredibly sad. Chance could tell he was desperately trying not to cry. To calm him down a little, he motioned him to walk with him to the library.

The fact that the whole maneuver had taken place so silently told Chance that it had been carried out by professionals. At the moment several rivaling groups of terrorists/rebels/freedom fighters (depending on whom you ask) were striving for power in this country and they all displayed a rather high level of training.

They crossed the threshold of the library and the boy froze, pressing one hand to his mouth. Chance took a deep breath. "What's written on the wall, Haroun?" Chance spoke some Arabian, but his reading skills were rather rusty.

Voice choking, Haroun told him.

A short time later, Chance climbed up on the roof of the refectory with his mobile, aiming for a better signal. Communication was a hit or miss thing in this country. This time he got through.

"You guys settled down in the capital yet?", he asked.

"Yeah, and... I'm NOT gonna eat that." Winston's voice.

"Dude, open your mind. This is perfectly edible."

"I'm not going to… "

Muffled arguing. Chance rolled his eyes towards the dark blue sky, but he couldn't stifle a smile.

"Guerrero, tell him what it is and be honest. Winston, I need you fit, eat it."

Static. For a moment Chance thought he'd lost contact, then he heard Winston's voice again. "You don't sound like the extraction is going well…"

"I need more information on a group called Ardeshir. Apparently they kidnapped our monks. At least that's what the message says that someone left on the wall of the library. And tell Ilsa to inquire at the embassy. The former colonial power still keeps ties to the country's secret service. We need to find out what they know, maybe the chairwoman of the Marshall Pucci Foundation can charm something out of the ambassador."

More static, then Guerrero's voice. "We're on it, Chance."

As Chance climbed down the building into the cloister garden, Haroun was waiting for him. "You're going to bring them back, aren't you?"

"I'll do my best", he replied.

A cool breeze was coming from the sea. It made them both shiver.


	66. Chapter 66

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_A labyrinth of back alleys in a North African capital. _

"WHAT THE HELL DID YOU SAY?", Winston thundered. Impressive, since he was gasping for air at the same time. One of the skills he had perfected in the years of working with Guerrero. And Chance, for that matter, who could drive him up the walls just as well.

"Dude, seriously, I didn't…."

"Well, you must have said _something_ since there's an angry mob after us!"

They rounded a corner and stopped, both panting heavily. Time to consider their options.

It was early evening and the streets were slowly coming to life. Not good. As two foreigners they were easily recognizable and now, with more and more people coming out into the open, it was getting increasingly difficult to get away.

Shouting and screaming, not far off. The pounding of feet. Guerrero briefly wondered if he had maybe confused a certain crucial word with another that – uh – was quite a grave insult, but did it matter now? He made a mental note to brush up his Arabic once they were back home. There was this Egyptian professor who still owed him a favor…

Well, _if_ they made it home, that was. The sounds of the mob were coming closer and they hurried on, ran down the street, passed a couple of market stalls, turned around another corner and…

…were faced with at least a hundred camels, resting on a huge square in the middle of the city.

Most of the animals were dozing in the shadows the surrounding buildings provided, some were munching lazily on thin, rather dry looking hay or straw someone had distributed in small heaps among them. A shepherd of some kind was nowhere in sight, but there was a small café on the far end of the square. He could probably be found there.

The camels were not particularly upset by the visitors. They were huge creatures that could kick hard and run fast. No need to make a fuss out of two small humans zig-zagging between them.

"Come on, dude, I've got an idea", Guerrero told Winston, yanked a wooden stake from the ground and produced his cigarette lighter.

"What are you… No! You are not going to cause a stampede!" Winston tried to take the lighter away from him, but of course Guerrero was faster. "In these small alleys the camels might trample each other to death! Can't we just take two and ride away with them? Escape into the desert?"

"First you give me a lecture on camel protection and then you suggest you're going to ride one? Talk about breaking the camel's back, dude…" Guerrero lit the stake.

The plan worked beautifully.

At the hint of smoke in the air the camels' ears began to twitch, their tails started swishing a little faster and the first nervous snorts could be heard from the fainter hearted ones. When Guerrero started waving the now brightly burning stake around, the animals jumped to their feet, making those deep rumbling noises that warned one another that grave danger was impending. Finally they started spinning, rearing, galloping panicky, the first one broke through the tacky fence that had kept them on the square, then the second one…

Guerrero had masterfully managed to herd them directly into the direction of the mob. Their pursuers definitely would have to face other problems now than chasing Winston and Guerrero.

Unfortunately Winston and Guerrero had another problem than getting away from the mob now, too. They were still watching the fleeing camels when suddenly the hard muzzles of machine guns were pressed into their backs.

The men who were holding the guns silently disarmed them, then nudged them forward, deeper and deeper into the labyrinth of narrow alleys that formed the oldest part of the capital. Not even in the more stabile colonial and pre-colonial days had law enforcers set foot in here without reinforcement. Nowadays they called the army, did the need arise to carry out an investigation in this area, but given the rest of the country's state, that hadn't happened in a long time.

After a walk of about ten minutes they arrived at the top of a long and steep flight of stairs that led to what looked like a cellar door. Everything in Winston screamed against walking down that stair, but there was no other option: Guns pushing against their necks, they were all but shoved towards the cellar door.

"Next time we use an App!", Winston snarled at Guerrero as he bent down, hands held up in an uncomfortable position behind the back of his head, to fit through the door. He groaned as he noticed that the cellar's ceiling was just as low as the door. Great. The day was really looking up.

At the far end of the room a man with a stubbly beard was seated on something that looked like a carpeted pedestal, between heaps of pillows, smoking a sweetish smelling cigarillo with a turquoise band.

"Look", Winston addressed him for he was obviously the leader, "whatever my…partner…said, we are foreigners, we don't speak your language perfectly, it was a misunderstanding, nothing more…"

When the man showed no visible reaction, just kept smoking his cigarillo, he hesitatingly added: "_You _do speak our language, don't you?"

This earned him a dark stare and both of them kicks in the backs of their knees.

"Very diplomatic, Mr. Mediator", Guerrero hissed.

"You did know that you were asking about Ardeshir, didn't you?", the smoker said. "Questions about Ardeshir are forbidden. Punishment: Death. Tonight in the desert you'll die."

"Damnit Guerrero, you said you knew what you were doing!" Winston wondered if mentioning Ilsa's name would help somehow. She could provide ransom after all and money was quite the universal language.

"Wait, you're _Guerrero_?" Suddenly the smoker's interest was piqued. He got up and walked over to his captives. Guerrero, who, unlike Winston, could stand upright under the low ceiling, pulled himself up to his full height.

"Yes", he said, locking eyes with the smoker.

The man stared right back at him, face hard and unreadable. The only thing moving in the room was the gray smoke rising in lazy curves from his cigarillo.

"Brother!", he suddenly yelled, lunged forwards and pulled Guerrero into a tight embrace. "You, a couple of years ago, you saved my father's life during an ambush on a convoy of relief supplies in Northern Sahara, remember?"

Two minutes later they were sitting on the pedestal with him, sipping sweet tea and smoking cigarillos, too. "Now, what do you want to know about Ardeshir, my friend?", he asked.


	67. Chapter 67

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_An impressive office in an embassy in Washington DC. _

Getting a meeting with the ambassador had been ridiculously easy. Ames – who acted as Ilsa's personal assistant – couldn't help but admire how a simple name like "Pucci" could open doors far more easily than any skeleton key.

Admire and envy.

This name thing… It was what had initially drawn her to Guerrero.

She wanted that for herself one day – a name that, by its mere mentioning, provoked a reaction. She just wasn't sure yet if the reaction she wanted should be more in the Ilsa or more in the Guerrero direction.

Both names provoked fearful respect – in Ilsa's case because the people wanted money from her, in Guerrero's case because they wanted him to leave them unharmed. Which was better? Guerrero's kind of power was more far-reaching, with people who owed him a favor or were eager to please him in all strata of society, especially in the nitty-gritty parts. Ilsa's, on the other hand, brought pictures in glossy magazines, evenings at the opera and lots of opportunities to wear fancy clothes.

Ames was undecided. She had asked Chance about this one evening, while marathoning One Tree Hill. Chance never said much when they watched TV together; he liked to make fun of her favorite scenes, but that wasn't really talking. It was difficult, getting a serious answer out of him. That evening however, he had replied: "Ever considered going the Ames way?"

Whoa, that sounded deep. She wasn't yet sure what to make out of it, but she was pretty sure she should give it some thought.

The ambassador's droning voice that had sent her mind down the pondering road slightly changed its tone, only a minor adjustment, but it drew Ames' attention. "We weren't aware that the Marshall Pucci Foundation was planning a developmental project for the island", he was just telling Ilsa.

What was that? A hint of uneasiness? What did it matter if "they" had been aware of the Foundation's interest in the monks? Had Ilsa picked it up, too?

Judging from her posture, legs elegantly stretched and ankles crossed, reaching out into the ambassador's personal space in a casual gesture but still, ever so slightly, building up pressure on him, she had. Her smile, seemingly friendly but steely in its determination, served the same purpose, just like the gesture with which she took the tea cup. It was in the fingers…

Ames would have never picked up on all these elements, hadn't Guerrero shown her a videotape lately and pointed them all out to her. "She keeps on doing that for another ten minutes and her dialog partner will have the feeling there's a tiger in the room with him", he had explained, with an interesting touch of admiration in his voice.

"We were planning an intense cooperation with the monks on the island, aiming to support and further the invaluable work they've done", Ilsa told the ambassador. "We're deeply shocked and concerned about the monks' recent fate."

"A perfectly understandable reaction. But, as you very well know, Mrs. Pucci, my country has granted that area its independency decades ago. We strongly advised the monks to leave the monastery back then, but they chose to remain on that island. I'm afraid but our hands are tied…"

"Which is a pity, Mr. Ambassador, since the Marshall Pucci Foundation wasn't only planning to fund the monks' projects but also the renovation of one of your country's most famous national monuments… but since your hands are tied…"

The ambassador shifted in his seat, Ilsa smiled. Unrelenting. "Could your assistant leave us for a moment?", he finally said.

This was exactly why Ames wanted A NAME. She'd been ushered out of rooms all her life, not trustworthy/worthy enough to get to know the really good stuff. Well, thankfully Ilsa was carrying a microphone. Walking out of the room, Ames quickly activated her earpiece, just in time to hear the ambassador spill the beans: "Our contacts to the secret service of our former area of protection are still well-maintained. We think a terrorist group named Ardeshir took the monks. They're hiding out in the mountains. We're gearing up for a secret operation to bombard their camp right now, so don't worry Mrs. Pucci, the monks will soon be home safe and sound."

When Ilsa replied, her voice had climbed up: "You're planning to _bombard_ the terrorists' camp? Where they're hiding the monks?"

"Our bombs are very precise, Mrs. Pucci", the ambassador answered. "Trust us."

Of course Ames couldn't see him, but to her ears he sounded like a grinning crocodile from a cartoon.

At this very moment, Ames' cell phone signaled, Winston's number. She quickly recounted what she'd just heard. "This doesn't make any sense", she finished. "They're planning to throw bombs on the place where the monks are? To _help_ them? If that's their idea of helping their citizens in need, I'm glad I'm American."

"It makes a lot more sense with our piece of the puzzle", Winston said.


	68. Chapter 68

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_A hilly desert region in North Africa. _

According to Chance's sources a rather big group of men had set up camp behind the reddish hill with the dead tree on top. He had reason to believe these men were the kidnappers. His source had fallen meaningfully silent when he had asked about prisoners in long white-brown cloaks, that had been answer enough for Chance.

What worried him, though, was that so far not a single sentinel seemed to be on duty. Very strange. Had they moved on again? With hostages it was important to keep moving, but Chance had tracked them down rather fast and it was a high number of captives, not easy to relocate.

Chance was just about to approach the hill a little more when his cell phone vibrated. He crouched behind a withered bush. "'m listening", he mumbled quietly.

"Hope you're ready for a history lesson." Winston's voice. "When the colonial power gave up its hold over the country, the former rulers supposedly also gave up their hold over the country's oil resources. Actually, however, they used figureheads and kept their control. They exploited the oil for decades quite undisturbed, till Ardeshir got wind of their activities a couple of years ago. Ever since they've been attacking the oil fields….You still listening?"

Chance grunted, gave up his position behind the bush and darted forward. Still no sentinel in sight.

"Naturally, the former colonial power didn't like that too much. Apparently they came up with a very creative plan to destroy Ardeshir…"

"Go on", Chance urged through clenched teeth. He was at the foot of the hill now. No guards and, even more upsetting, no noises. Camps are never really silent – car engines, generators, water recycling units, they all make sounds and in the desert sounds travel far.

But there was nothing.

"Our ex-colonists discovered that Ardeshir is not one monolithic organization but consists of two rivaling groups, a bigger, rather conservative majority and a significant minority that claims to be interested in setting up a "people-friendly autocracy". Guess what happened next?"

Chance rolled his eyes…it was always the same old story…

"The former colonial rulers joined forces with the minority part of Ardeshir and hired them to kidnap the monks. With the life of citizens on the line they would have an excuse for launching a military attack on the Ardeshir majority without the international community crying out in protest. The minority would get the upper hand in their strive for power. A win-win situation…" Chance was still muttering under his breath, but not as softly as before. He was almost at the top of the hill now.

This utter silence all around…

"No surprise the ambassador wasn't worried about blowing the monks into pieces. He knew they were in another camp, in the custody of their allies…." Winston sounded as if he was shaking his head. "It's the old the enemy of my enemy is my friend thing…"

Chance had reached the top of the hill now. After a moment of looking around, he pulled himself up to his full height, taking in the sight of the camp for a long moment. What he saw made him lean against the dead tree. Then he looked down to his feet where the ground felt different, less hardened and parched by the sun than the surrounding soil. _That_ sight made him grab the tree for a tiny second.

"You still there?", Winston asked.

"The camp is destroyed. Dead bodies everywhere", Chance replied, slowly crouching down again. "Looks like an ambush with machine guns to me, hand grenades too, judging from the state of the tents. I'm standing on a grave, Winston."

He started shoveling the earth away with his hands. The grave was shallow. It didn't take him long to reveal a man's face. "It's one of the monks." He quickly made a photo and forwarded it to Guerrero before a gust of wind covered it with a thin layer of dust again.

Guerrero compared the picture with the one in the file Abbot Stevens had given them. "It's Brother Calixt, Chance." As always, his voice didn't give away what he felt, but in the background he could hear Winston kick something. Plaster came down the ceiling.

"This kind of secretive bullshit ALWAYS backfires!"

How did Chance feel about the monk's fate? He stared at the man's face a moment longer than he usually would have. Watched it getting covered again with sand, lightly and softly by the wind's almost caressing touch. Then a faint sound diverted his attention.

"I'm not alone", he told Guerrero, now quietly again, heading down the hill into the remnants of the camp. "I've heard something."

Whoever had ambushed the camp had done a thorough and very well thought out job. The high number of victims pointed to skillful planning. The destruction was not senseless. All valuable assets, the vehicles for example, but also cooking and radio equipment, were missing.

"I think you can scratch the "Ardeshir consists of two groups"-part", Chance told Winston as he stepped over another lifeless body. "The minority is no more."

"What about the other monks?"

"No sign of them either."

A hoarse cough caught Chance's attention. He lifted a tent plane, revealing a young man underneath, not older than Haroun. He was bleeding badly. "You've got maybe two minutes left to tell me what happened", Chance told him in Arabic.

Guerrero, listening in, handed Winston his phone even before Chance started translating. "Tell Ilsa we've got a problem", he said.

"Wiseass, of course we've got a problem. Six monks missing, one dead!" Winston would have never admitted it, but sometimes being able to snarl at Guerrero was a relief.

"Dude, the problem is not that they're missing, that problem is that the boy just told Chance who took them and where they're brought."

Chance lowered the young man's limp body to the ground.

"Call Ilsa, Winston."


	69. Chapter 69

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_The impressive office in the embassy in Washington DC._

"Mrs. Pucci is here to see you again, Mr. Ambassador", the embassy's executive secretary announced chirpily via intercom.

Not chirpily at all the ambassador replied: "Please let her know that unfortunately I'm very caught up in ambassadorial work. Had she bothered to ask for an appointment instead of just tra… instead of paying us a surprise visit, we would have gladly informed her that today is not a convenient day. Since she opted not to, however, we are very sorry to have to inform her that she has wasted her time."

A short pause, then: "Mrs. Pucci informed me that she is going to see the president's assistant at a charity event next week and would like to know if there's anything you'd like her to tell him."

The ambassador groaned in deep frustration. This woman was seriously getting on his nerves.

"Let her in. We'll discuss the issue face to face."

The door swung open and in walked Ilsa Pucci.

"Mr. Ambassador! I feel deeply honored that you could manage to sacrifice a few minutes of your spare time." She sat down on the visitor's chair.

The ambassador thought about last week, when he had had a couple of drinks with some secret service people. They had told him about a tasteless drug that made the consumer highly amenable to influence. He should have asked for a bottle. A couple of drops slipped into Ilsa Pucci's tea…

"I'd like to talk about the monks again, Mr. Ambassador", Ilsa began.

Damn, if they had known that the monks were in contact with the Pucci Foundation, they'd given them a wide berth. The alternative to the abduction of the monks would have been the kidnapping of a couple of inhabitants of an orphanage in the capital, but back then they had figured monks were much easier to handle than kids. Well, next time they'd know better. "We feel honored the Marshall Pucci Foundation takes such great interest in the fate of some of our citizens that its chairwoman feels the need to visit us twice within less than 24 hours, but let me assure you, Mrs. Pucci, there's no need to worry."

"Am I assuming correctly that this assurance is based on the assumption that the kidnapped monks are safe with your allies, the minority branch of Ardeshir?", Ilsa replied. She took a deep breath and for a moment the tone of her voice slipped, became deeper, darker. "Well, I've got news for you."

His fake smile froze on his face.

… … …

_North Africa, capital. _

"How are we going to call this item on our expense account?", Winston asked Guerrero.

"Bribe", Guerrero replied curtly.

"Ilsa hands the expense accounts to the IRS, you know."

"Not our problem."

Winston sighed. Actually he couldn't care less about the paperwork with Ilsa right now. What he really wanted to ask was "Do you think this will work? Are you sure our new found friends in the cellar by the camel market are trustworthy? What if they sell us out to Ardeshir?" But he knew that Guerrero had no better answers to these questions than he himself had. They were gambling this time, and gambling high stakes.

Chance's life was on the line.

… … …

_The embassy. _

Predictably, the ambassador replied: "I've got no idea what you're talking about."

"I know you joined forces with a group inside Ardeshir that was striving for dominance." Ilsa leaned forward, deliberately violating his personal space. "You promised them assistance with getting rid of their opponents, they promised they'd leave the oil fields alone. Unfortunately the majority group's leader found out that the minority group had kidnapped the monks and decided to put a final stop on what he interpreted as unauthorized activity: He had the minority's camp ambushed and annihilated. We couldn't find most of the monks so we have to assume the majority group took them with them… into the camp you're planning to bombard. You've got to stop the air raid. Now."

The ambassador's face turned white as a ghost. "It's not in my power to do so."

Ilsa slammed her hand down hard on his expensive mahogany desk. "Then get me _the bloody hell_ someone on the phone who can!"

… … …

_North Africa, a mountain range._

Chance knew they had seen him. He had noticed at least three guard posts along the road so far and since he was driving in plain sight they couldn't possibly have missed him.

Speaking of "missing him" – not a single bullet had been fired in his direction yet. They all let him pass unharmed.

Chance decided to interpret that as a good sign. Of course it could also mean they were waiting for him to enter the camp and apprehend him there. Why waste ammunition when he was heading towards them anyway? But since it was Guerrero who had come up with this plan and since Guerrero usually had a good instinct for betrayal, he drove on.

Straight into the lion's den.

… … …

_The embassy. _

"Mrs. Pucci, you're way out of line here. You've got no proof whatsoever that the monks are really in that camp." The general the ambassador had managed to contact was definitely not willing to let a civilian – a foreign civilian – a female foreign civilian – meddle in his affairs.

"If the monks are in that camp and they die during your air raid the Marshall Pucci Foundation will make sure that the public becomes aware of this", Ilsa pointed out, drawing on every bit of strength she had left in her body to sound self-assured and fiercely determined.

What she really wanted to do was scream at them, at the top of her lungs. Time was running out, for Chance, for the monks… the jet fighters were most likely already in the air… But this was not the time to let her emotions take over. She was dealing with people who obviously didn't give a damn about an individual life. A ballistic woman wouldn't impress them. A threat to their careers, on the other hand…

"Just to make one thing very clear, Mrs. Pucci… whether you're right or wrong – when this is over the Marshall Pucci Foundation will never be able to count on our voluntary cooperation again. Do you really want to risk our goodwill?", the general asked in nerve-grating slowness.

Ilsa could imagine what the Foundation's board of directors would have to say on the matter. Well, she'd deal with them later. There was still some of the dirt on the board members left Guerrero had provided her with… maybe it was time to open the vault again…

"Save your people! Now!", Ilsa hissed at the general's image on the monitor, knowing full well she was burning bridges now.

… … …

_North Africa. _

"So you're the contact we've been informed about?", Ardeshir's now undisputed leader greeted Chance.

Chance nodded – the less words the better – and hoped with all his heart that Guerrero's guy – whoever that was, Winston had told him a complicated story that involved camels – had really managed to convince the leader that the figureheads had given up their possession of the oil fields in exchange for the monks.

It was a lie that wouldn't hold long, but at the moment all Chance needed was to get the monks away from the camp as far as possible. There was no way to be sure Ilsa would really be able to stop the air raid, so this contingency plan was all they had.

The leader rested his gaze on Chance for a long moment. He was holding a single sheet of paper in his hand. A new message from the capital that informed him that he was being played?

The wind picked up again, blew sand in their eyes and tugged at their clothes. The leader held the paper high up in the air and let it be carried away with the wind.

"Well then, they're all yours", he finally said.

Maybe he had picked up the determination in Chance's eyes, maybe he had decided that keeping the monks was too big a risk, maybe he believed the lie Guerrero's cellar contact had told him – they'd never know and it didn't matter anyway.

The six monks eyed Chance suspiciously as they climbed into his vehicle, but they relaxed significantly as he told them (after leaving Ardeshir's camp behind in the distance) that Haroun would be very happy to see them again.

"What happened to Brother Calixt?", Chance asked.

"He had been suffering from high blood pressure for years. Without his pills…" The sadness in the monk's voice reminded Chance of the moment on the hill, when the sand had covered Brother Calixt's face again.

_Playing around with people, like pawns in a game of chess. _He felt deep anger rise in his chest, like a predator of some kind, something with claws and long sharp teeth.

"We're going to retrieve his body", he said, determined, took out his mobile and speed dialed Winston.

… … …

_Outside the embassy. _

"I've managed to hold off the air raid!", Ilsa told Winston via mobile. "Chance and the monks are safe!"

"That's fantastic, Ilsa", Winston replied.

The way he took a deep breath told her there was something wrong. Her stomach clenched. Had something happened to Chance?

"Now do you think you could convince the general to send a cargo helicopter or something of that kind to the minority group's destroyed camp? Chance and the monks went there to get Brother Calixt's body. They could do with a lift back to their island, especially since by now Ardeshir is probably on their trail again…" Winston, despite being far away in Africa, kind of ducked, waiting for her reply.

"YOU'VE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME!"


	70. Chapter 70

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_The island, North Africa. _

Even from the mainland they could see that something was amiss on the island. Thick black smoke was rising in huge clouds from roughly the area where the abbey was located.

There was still a tiny spark of hope left, however. The farmers were maybe burning bad crop or something in that direction.

But as the helicopter Ilsa somehow had bullied out of the general got closer it became very clear that it wasn't only roughly the area of the abbey where _something_ was burning, it was _the abbey_ that was burning.

It was way too late for any kind of attempt to extinguish the fire. Hissing, angry red flames were already licking through the church's roof. Just as the helicopter landed, the bell tower gradually started tipping. The monks filed out of the engine one by one, wordlessly, their eyes trained on their burning home. The tower groaned and grunted like a living being, and also like a living being, it didn't sandwich or crumble, it sank to the ground, agonizingly slow.

All they could do was watch as the fire one by one consumed the church, the main building, the library, the side wings. Not even the knotty old trees in the cloister garden were spared. This was no accident – the coincidence of their return and the abbey burning was way to conspicuous. Had Ardeshir intercepted Chance's message to Haroun that the monks were coming home?

Haroun was standing in front of the burning buildings, face turned towards the fire. Chance and the rescued abbot slowly approached him. The boy didn't react when they called out to him. Only when the abbot cautiously touched his shoulder, he reluctantly turned around. His face was streaked with tears and smeared with soot. So were his hands. He reeked of gasoline.

Chance couldn't believe it.

The abbot let his hand remain on the boy's shoulder. "Why did you do that, son?", he asked calmly.

It took a long while before Haroun found the strength to answer. The abbot patiently waited him out. "Brother Calixt is already dead", he finally said. "If you remain here, you are not safe. Who says Ardeshir or someone else won't come back tomorrow? I don't want anyone else to die! I don't want you to risk your life!"

The abbot embraced him and held him tight. "Son, that is our decision", he said quietly.

Haroun sobbed, crying like a child, and for a long while, nobody said a word. Finally the abbot spoke up again: "We're going to bury Brother Calixt here, in the garden, where he always used to work."

"And then? Are you going to leave then?", Haroun asked.

"We'll see", the abbot replied.

Chance decided he wouldn't stick around for the funeral.

… … …

_On the plane to San Francisco. _

"Do you think the Old Man knows?", Winston asked Guerrero.

Guerrero shook his head. "He would have used it against him."

Winston nodded. "That's exactly the problem… So, now the case is over, what are we going to do?"

"Sit him down, pour him a stiff drink, tell him…", Guerrero suggested.

"Could we maybe feed him a tracker first, in case he decides to run off to Tibet again?" Winston tried to make it sound like a joke, but Guerrero understood.

"Nepal."

"Does it matter, wiseass?" Winston waited for an earnest answer to his joking question.

It wasn't that Guerrero hadn't had the same idea in one of the sleepless nights that had followed his discovery. But in the end…

"It's his decision, dude…"

… … …

_The warehouse, kitchen area. _

"I told you we'd meet again", Abbot Stevens said. He thoughtfully studied Chance as he poured himself another glass of Bourbon. "What happened?", he finally asked.

"Haroun burnt the abbey in an attempt to protect the monks…", Chance mumbled, tired of all of it.

"No, I'm not talking about the abbey. What happened that put you into this… mood…?"

Chance stared at him, surprised. The abbot returned his gaze with a strangely calming smile.

"Someone I barely knew died in my arms", Chance finally said.

"That was probably not the first time this happened", the abbot replied.

"No, but it was the first time I…" Chance hesitated. The abbot remained silent, said nothing, gave him all the time in the world to finish the sentence and even if he hadn't said a thing it would have been okay.

"I've always regarded death as just punishment, waiting for me for what I did. Now I'm wondering if I got it wrong. Maybe it's not punishment." He downed his Bourbon, staring off into space. "Maybe it's redemption."


	71. BRMK

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_**~ BRMK ~**_

_The warehouse._

The cane came down hard on Chance's bare back.

"Hey, Guerrero, we're sparring", he groaned.

"Yes, and you're not paying attention", his friend replied.

The next blow hit the back of his left knee. Chance cried out in pain.

"Pay attention, dude."

Sparring with Guerrero was, on the one hand, the greatest training one could get because he was enormously controlled in his movements. Accidents were a rarity. On the other hand that also meant Guerrero knew exactly how far he could go without causing severe damage and _that_ in turn meant, should he, for whatever reason, decide to teach his partner a lesson – such as now – things could get painful.

Very painful. Just this side of really hurt painful.

Chance was maybe a little subdued, but definitely not in the mood to get beaten up like a school boy during recess behind the cafeteria. He spun around, ducked and aimed a blow at Guerrero's kneecaps. Guerrero, however, anticipated the move, jumped up, landed on Chance's cane and pinned it to the ground.

Barely avoiding a violent blow directed at his chest, Chance leaped backwards and retreated. He was now unarmed against Guerrero with a cane.

Uh-oh.

"Wanna run?", Guerrero asked, swinging his cane.

"And let you get away with this?" His back was still burning.

For a moment they circled each other in silence, the only sounds the muffled pit-a-pat of their bare feet on the ground and their ragged breathing.

Finally Chance seemingly got impatient, lunged forward, Guerrero lashed out – but this time Chance managed to duck the blow. He tackled his friend off his feet, wrested the cane from his hand and sent it flying across the office, in whose center they were working out.

Guerrero brought his knee up, hit Chance's abdomen, Chance didn't let go, they rolled over, once, twice, there went Guerrero through the coffee table in the lounge - CRASH! Struggling and clinging to each other, they both fell backwards through one of the glass walls straight into Ilsa's office.

Landing hard in a ton of tiny glass shreds somehow brought them to their senses. For a moment they just sat still and looked at each other. Then Chance broke into that familiar lopsided smile Guerrero hadn't seen in a while.

"She's going to kill us for that", he said.

And both burst out laughing.

"Mission accomplished", Guerrero thought contentedly as he wiped some blood from his brow.

At this very moment the elevator signaled, the doors slid open and Winston came stomping out.

"Aren't you a bit late, dude?", Guerrero asked, looking pointedly at the huge clock behind Ilsa's desk. "Don't wanna nitpick or anything, but you know how Ilsa is regarding working hours… I'm just saying… " He allowed himself a broad grin.

Winston came trampling towards him like a fuming rhino. "You know what? There are days when I really wonder how my life would be without the whole lot of you in it! You know where I've been last night? You know that? You want to know?"

"What happened?", Chance asked, coming back from the office's showering facility with a towel. Why use his own when those from the office where washed by a cleaning service while he had to wash his personal laundry himself?

"I spent the night in a holding cell! With criminals! I tried to reach a certain someone, but apparently HE HAD TURNED HIS PHONE OFF!" Winston was so angry, steam was practically rising from his ears. "I was framed for MURDER! Luckily forensics proved it can't have been me, but I WAS FRAMED FOR MURDER!"

Chance frowned. "Hang on a second, you couldn't reach…"

The elevator signaled again and out stepped Ilsa. She was furious, they could tell by the way her heels were clicking.

And then she saw her office.

Huh. Guerrero with a cane suddenly didn't seem so frightening a sight anymore.

"Sometimes I really wish I had never, ever met you, Christopher Chance!", she bellowed at him. "Somebody tried to pin a murder on me! Made it look like I shot a man in cold blood! It's even on tape!"

Winston's anger evaporated into thin air. Instead a cold shiver was running down his spine. He looked at Guerrero and Chance. What the hell was going on?

"Well", Ilsa kept on ranting, "luckily I was lifted of all charges because at the time the murder happened I was already in a police station, being questioned FOR HOURS about my knowledge of a certain black Cadillac in which a CIA agent was blown up a couple of months ago!" She took one of the white glass pears from her desk and threw it at Guerrero. Guerrero stepped aside and it crashed to the floor somewhere in the back of the office, shattering into a thousand pieces.

"Why didn't you catch it?", she shouted at him. "You catch knives, burning stakes, even attacking raccoons. Why the hell didn't you catch it? That was a thousand dollar hand-blown Murano glass pear!"

She was, obviously, quite stressed out.

Before the men had a chance to say anything calming, however, the elevator signaled for the third time.

Ames.

"You won't believe what happened!", she said, oblivious to the trashed office.

"Let me guess, you got framed for murder?", Chance asked.

"How did you…?"

The telephone on Ilsa's desk rang. After a short exchange of glances Chance walked over and picked it up.

"Mr. Chance", an unknown voice on the other end of the line said. "Do I have your attention now?"


	72. Chapter 72

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_The warehouse. Loading bay. _

"What the hell have you been thinking?" Winston still couldn't quite believe what he was seeing.

"Felt like it", Guerrero shrugged.

Ames, who had just finished unloading boxes from her car, came walking over to the men, peeked briefly between Chance's and Winston's shoulders, stopped, peeked again, couldn't believe it, too, and ended up outright staring. "Ugh, I might not be an expert here, but since this whole issue most likely requires her cooperation, do you think this was wise?"

"Admit it, you were still pissed she disarmed you back in the jungle." Chance threw his friend a long, knowing look.

"Good thing Ilsa doesn't see this", Ames mused as Chance proceeded to scoop up bound, gagged and unconscious Emma from the trunk of Guerrero's car.

"Ah, speaking of, Ilsa would like to have a word with you", Winston informed Guerrero. "Guess she wasn't too pleased finding out you blew up that CIA agent." He didn't bother suppressing a smirk.

"None of her business, dude."

"Well, I suggest you take your time making your position clear to her, meanwhile we try and calm the waves with Emma." Chance unceremoniously tossed her in a fireman's carry over his shoulder.

"Don't think she'll remember much", Ames muttered, remembering only too well how fast and hard Guerrero had knocked _her_ out once.

… … …

Ilsa was indeed not too pleased and yes, it had to do with that CIA agent. "I've been practically grilled at that police station!", she snarled at him as soon as he entered her office. Guerrero took his time to sit down in her visitor's chair, just like they had agreed upon down in the loading bay. He made a show of taking his seat deliberately slow, crossing his legs, arching his eyebrows and pushing his glasses down a little, ensuring that all her focus was on him.

Chance took advantage of the situation and hurried past Ilsa's office door with his load while she was still concentrated on Guerrero. In addition to that Winston, walking on Chance's right, did his best to block her view with his large frame, just in case. Ames, meanwhile, made a fuss out of carrying the boxes she had brought from Emma's apartment out of the elevator, producing as much noise as she could.

"What've you got your lawyers for?" Guerrero wasn't particularly impressed by Ilsa's pissed off boss-show. He'd definitely seen scarier sights.

"If they had arrested me I'd been out in no time, but apparently interrogating someone follows different regulations." She was still too upset to sit down. "What the bloody hell have you been thinking? How could you blow him up?"

"Save your human rights lecture. Dude was a bastard just like the chick who killed your husband. That you couldn't go through with your stunt on the hotel's rooftop doesn't mean others have to go soft, too."

Ilsa stopped pacing up and down behind her desk and stared at him. "No, I meant, how could you blow him up in the ElDo? A car that's so easily traceable back to you?"

Now it was Guerrero's turn to stare. "You're not upset because I killed him, you're upset because…"

"You were sloppy!" Ilsa finally sat down behind her desk. "You, of all people! I really don't understand how you could leave such glaring evidence as your trademark car!"

Guerrero thoughtfully rested his eyes on her. "I was upset", he finally said.

"About what? Because the CIA agent threatened us? Not the first time this happened."

Again, Guerrero said nothing, but the word "pressure point" unbidden resurfaced in his mind. Rage and, yes, fear, had clouded his sense of reason. He thought about Chance and, for the millionth time, how he'd react on the news they had in store for him.

"It's none of your business, Ilsa, but it won't happen again." At least he hoped so. After the CIA incident he had upped his security measurements to a level that had been called "paranoid" and "overkill" – by someone who was used to his antics for over two years now.

Whoa, _Guerrero_ admitted that he had make a mistake? To her? "I trust it won't", she said.

The fact that she didn't inquire any further, that she respected what he had made clear was his private sphere, didn't go unnoticed by him.

He was almost out the door when he stopped, turned on his heel and fished something out of his jacket, a small package. "Bought you something", he said and tossed it at her.

Curiously, Ilsa opened the parcel. It contained a glass pear, like the one she had broken a couple of hours before. It was the same design, even had the same weight and according to the tiny label it was Murano glass, too. The only difference was that it was black as jet. She thoughtfully weighed it in her hand.

Outside Emma's angry voice suddenly could be heard quite distinctively.

"Is that Agent Barnes? What is she so upset about?", Ilsa asked, apparently still undecided whether to place the black pear on the spot where the white one had been or not.

"No idea", Guerrero shrugged and walked out.


	73. Chapter 73

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_The warehouse. Conference room._

"The basic idea was that Guerrero informed you about a … situation… that's come up and then escorted you here", Chance told a still fuming Emma.

"He didn't tell me about any situation. The blow totally came out of the blue", she snarled.

"Well, there was a hard way and an easy way to get you here." Guerrero smiled, showing his incisor teeth. Chance had been wrong. He wasn't still pissed with her because she had disarmed him in the jungle. Shit like that happened – she was a well-trained agent after all. No, he was still pissed with her because she had refused to help Ilsa and Winston when they needed a Washington contact in the context of the stone plate issue. Her ridiculous behavior had put them at more risk than necessary and that, in his book, was a no go.

"You knocked me out!", she complained.

"Yeah, I chose the easy way."

Emma's face actually changed colors, he cheeks sporting a deep dark murderous red now.

He knew she'd love to wipe the smirk off his face with a swipe of her painted claws. Too bad she knew he'd retaliate and retaliate thoroughly. Instinctive self-preservation was the only thing that kept her from lashing out and he truly enjoyed yanking her leash.

Self-preservation. That was probably what put him off about her so much.

Emma always put herself first and then, if it suited her, considered the others, too. Yeah, she had run back into that building with the bomb to save the Chinese delegate, but he'd be damned if she hadn't at least vaguely in the back of her mind calculated what impact a successful rescue would have on her career.

Guerrero realized that not too many years ago he'd have asked "And? What's wrong with that?" The reason the same type of behavior made him angry now, at least when it affected … his people … was sitting right across from him and offering Emma a cup of tea.

_Dude, you're in serious danger of losing your bad ass status. _

The tea Chance was offering her smelt slightly fruity, strawberry with a hint of lemon, one of her favorite mixtures, very hard to come by. Still staring daggers at everyone Emma took a sip from the cup and couldn't help but let out a contented little sigh. Ah, the really good stuff you couldn't get unless you had the right contacts… wait..

"This Guerrero's tea?"

"Glad you like it."

SPLASH

She hadn't quite managed to drench his face, the son of a bitch moved backwards too fast, but the pink spot on his shirt was quite satisfying.

"Hey, Even Steven from here on you two, okay?" Chance wrested the now empty cup from Emma's hand and shot Guerrero a warning look. "Emma, this is serious. Someone made contact with us and told us he knew the Blue Ridge Mountain Killer is not on the loose anymore because you killed him. He also knows that we helped you to hush it up."

He told her about the murders the caller had tried to frame Ilsa, Winston and Ames with. Apparently they were dealing with someone who could not only talk the talk but also walk the walk. "He wants money in exchange for his silence, delivery this evening."

"But that's impossible, how can he…?"

Guerrero, who had, while Chance had been busy explaining, taken a look at some of the documents Emma had collected regarding the Blue Ridge Mountain Killer, snorted and pushed a single sheet towards Chance.

"Is this from one of the boxes in my apartment?", Emma asked, highly alarmed.

"I just took the boxes, didn't snoop around, I swear", Ames assured her. "And I'm really sorry about that vase."

"You broke into my house?"

"You've done a great job renovating it." Ames tried a tentative smile.

_"You are my one and only. We complement each other perfectly. You are my eyes, I'm your hands. I can't wait till we get together again"_, Chance read from the sheet Guerrero had pointed out to him. He stared at Emma for a long moment. "This was sent from prison to the Blue Ridge Mountain Killer."

"Yeah, so he was gay and his lover was in prison and wrote him love letters, what's the big deal?" Emma replied, puzzled by the grave expression on Chance's face.

Winston grabbed the sheet of paper, glanced over it, stared at her: "Don't you see it?"

"See what?"

"_You are my eyes, I'm your hands…_ Emma, they might have been lovers, but more importantly, they were partners in crime. The Blue Ridge Mountain Killer had a partner who was in prison when you murdered him", Chance said.

Emma hissed through clenched teeth. Damnit, of course! Now it made sense – the change of BRMK's MO in the last few murders, the twofold profile… they had been dealing with two killers and hadn't seen it… "What are we going to do now?"

"He asked for you to hand over the money. We'll be there and back you up – Guerrero with a shotgun in a tree, Ames in a car should a pursuit be necessary, Winston in the van, I'll be hiding close by to step in should things get physical."

"Wait a second…", Ilsa said.

"So we're going to pay him off?", Emma said, completely ignoring Ilsa.

"No, we'll try and get our hands on him. Money won't put a stop on this." Chance looked uncomfortable. No surprise. Blackmail cases like these had practically only one solution. A very final one. Emma and Guerrero had already practiced it with Dean Robinson. Chance wasn't sure he was willing to let that happen again, there had to be another option, but for now all that mattered was that they caught him.

"What about me?", Ilsa asked. "What will I do when you try and get a hold of that man?"

"You go home and catch some sleep", Chance replied and the tone of his voice made it very clear that this was not up for debate. "There is nothing you can do on site. Now, I know you've proven yourself lately, you've done really well, but this evening you stay at home. This is not for you."

The look of disappointment on her face was almost too much for him. He wanted her safe, but seeing her so crestfallen… "_Not yet_ for you", he added.

That was a little better.

It felt strange, leaving the team behind for a job, but if she was honest with herself, deep down Ilsa knew she wouldn't be of much help and she _was_ tired.

Chance watched her step into the elevator and frowned. He should be relieved, having her out of harm's way for a change. But something didn't feel right. The letters the partner had sent to BRMK from prison were glowing with love, no surprise Emma had mistaken them for simple signs of affection. A partnership as deep as this, partners in crime, soul mates... And then the surviving partner asks for _money_ in exchange for forgetting everything?

It sounded like a trap. They needed to be extra careful.

_**A/N: The beginning of this chapter was devised by PocketSevens. Big THANK YOU for your input!**_


	74. Chapter 74

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_The Presidio. Meeting place. _

They were all in position. Technically, nothing could go wrong. But they were all tense: Guerrero wasn't eating, Ames was relentlessly tapping her fingers against the steering wheel, Winston kept on checking the van's electronic. Emma hadn't snarled at Guerrero once.

The way the caller had dealt with them so far, framing some of them, blocking their telephone connections… in addition to the information that he had lost his lover at the hands of Emma and they had prevented her from having to pay for it….

Whoever "he" was – they had a name from the prison letters, but that had turned out to be a dead end – had had a lot of time on his hands.

Time that he had obviously used for lots of research and some very creative planning. It just didn't fit that he was after money…

Chance tried to imagine what he would do, should someone hurt… Ilsa…

He frowned, surprised that her name had jumped to his mind first. He'd go ballistic, should something happen to Guerrero or Winston, but in this context he had thought of Ilsa first, why?

There was an explanation that had to do with the nature of the relationship between the Blue Ridge Mountain Killer and his partner, but he didn't want to dwell on that right now. Another realization was much more urgent: Ilsa was still, Washington sewage rats adventure and South American jungle last minute rescue aside, the most vulnerable member of the team.

And someone who had done his homework thoroughly enough to frame three of them for murder surely knew that…

"I want to go and check on Ilsa", Chance told the others via earpiece. "You think you can get this done without me?"

Guerrero's reply summed up what they all thought. "Go ahead, bro."

… … …

Ilsa had been thinking about selling the apartment after the Hector Lopez incident. She had stepped around the spot where he had died for months, but in the end she had been too busy to set the necessary proceedings in motion. Running from exploding vehicles/armed thugs/various law enforcement people _does _consume time…

When she came out of the shower, walked down the stairs and noticed the glass of wine on the counter that she hadn't put there, however, she decided that the first thing she'd do tomorrow would definitely be calling some real estate people.

"Do you know what it's like to kill, Mrs. Pucci?", a heavily accented voice (Spanish? Good Lord, this was getting ridiculously repetitive) asked her before she had the chance to get really panicky.

She slowly backed away from him, towards her kitchen counter. Her knees were shaking and she bit her lip.

The intruder, a middle-aged man with military haircut and unsettlingly bulging eyes studied her thoughtfully. "Oh.. you do…" He smirked. "I bet that weighed heavily on your conscience. Well, that effect wears off after a while…" He drew his gun.

Ilsa's back bumped against the kitchen counter. Her knees were constantly threatening to give way. "Breathing is the key", Guerrero had told her. "Keep breathing evenly, it'll keep you from working yourself into a frenzy."

After the Lopez incident she had made certain …alterations… regarding her interior design. She knew from remodeling the office that Chance had stashed weapons everywhere in the building and she had figured what worked for him should work for her, too, shouldn't it? But hiding weapons was one thing, actually using them…

Military haircut man cocked his gun.

One day Ilsa had found a parcel on her desk. She had opened it and her first impulse had been to give it back to him. _Should fit under your kitchen sink_ the attached note had said.

Military haircut man's finger twitched.

Out of nowhere, a shadow jumped at the intruder. Ilsa didn't need to see the second visitor properly. She just knew it was Chance.

Both men crashed to the floor, rolled over, several times, and hit the fridge hard. Several glasses on the other side of the kitchen shook and fell off their shelves, breaking into pieces. Chance landed a punch on the intruder's face and tried to wrest the gun from his hand, but the thug didn't let go. Chance grabbed his wrist with both hands, tried to bring his knee up…

The intruder pulled the trigger.

Ilsa screamed and the wooden door of a drawer cracked.

Stupid Ilsa, why did you scream?

The realization that a ricochet shot could coincidentally hit her…

Chance was distracted. Only for a split second, but he was distracted.

The thug's fist hit his temple hard as iron, Chance's head bounced backwards, bumped against the kitchen floor, he saw stars. And was that blood? His opponent jumped up, aimed straight at his chest, got ready to fire.

A shot rang through the apartment.

The thug froze, turned sideways and stared Ilsa.

_The gun Guerrero had given her had fit perfectly under the kitchen sink. _

She fired again, hitting the thug in the chest, just below the heart.

He dropped to the floor.

For a moment Chance could do nothing but look at her, completely shocked. Then he noticed how terribly she was trembling, how pale her face was. He shoved the dead man away, got up and caught Ilsa just in time to prevent her from falling to the floor.

Oh God, what had he done? She had had to shoot someone, to take another life, _because of him_.

Something broke inside of him.

At that very moment, his cell phone signaled. Guerrero.

"Chance? Bad news bro. He's got Emma. He abducted her."

_**A/N: This chapter was plotted by PocketSevens - I can't stress how helpful outside input is! THANK YOU!**_


	75. Chapter 75

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_The warehouse. _

The call came five minutes after they had all gathered at the office again.

Ames was sporting a black eye, Guerrero's clothes were torn and bloody, so were Winston's. It was safe to say things had gone majorly wrong on their side of the job. Without anyone actually voicing it, however, they all sensed that something regarding Ilsa had gone even more FUBAR.

Chance's eyes were dead. Plain and simple. When he stepped out of the elevator, Guerrero froze for a moment because he looked like Junior again, Junior in his darkest moments, before he pulled the trigger and took down a mark, his face an empty mask.

What the hell had happened?

Ilsa had insisted on accompanying Chance first down to the Bay where they got rid of the body, then back to the office to meet the others. He thought she didn't want to be alone in the apartment after the horrendous event of having to shoot another human being.

_And again because of me. She would have never met Hector Lopez, hadn't she met me. And she would have never become a target of that thug, hadn't she met me. She had to take two lives, lost her innocence forever. Because of me. I once saved her life, yes, but for what price? This will leave a permanent mark on her. It's all so goddamn senseless. _

The truth was the thug had been right – it did get easier the second time. At least to Ilsa it felt like that at the moment. She was shaken, yes, and the first few minutes of realizing in all its finality what she had done had been horrible, yes, but she hadn't had much of a choice, had she? _He_ had come into her apartment, _he_ had tried to kill her…

What really concerned her right now was Chance – he looked, for lack of a better word, destroyed. She had seen Winston and Guerrero stick their heads together quite a lot lately and she wondered if they had noticed Chance's mood growing darker, too. Today's unfortunate events seemed to have flipped a switch in that regard. For the first time she could really believe he had been a cold-blooded killer once. She had always known it, of course, but when being with him, witnessing all his mischievous little pranks, his manner of making light of difficult situations, the comfort he could give, it had always seemed unreal.

Not now.

"What do you want?", Chance asked the caller and the tone of his voice made Ames look up. It wasn't the anger in it that made her shiver. It was the coldness. He sounded defeated, but not helpless-defeated, more lost-defeated, like a caught tiger or something – fully knowing that the steel bars would hold and _because of that_ even more ready to lash out at anyone coming near. She could see in Winston's face that he was alarmed, too.

"I want, as you might have gathered by now, revenge", the caller said. "I want to inflict as much pain on Ms. Barnes and, because you helped her, you people, as possible."

To the outside, Chance seemed to be cold as ice, but inside his mind was reeling. _The only way to make this whole goddamn situation somehow half-way right again, is to get Emma and everyone out of it safe. Should anything happen to her or anyone else…_ Chance forced himself to concentrate on the caller again. "Why are we having this conversation?"

"Because I figured out that punishing Ms. Barnes the same way she punished the love of my life is one thing. Much more interesting however, would be to let her experience the guilt of the survivor that I have to live with for the rest of my life. Thus I propose an exchange: Ms. Barnes against one of you. I don't care who, but rest assured, whoever it is, you won't see him or her alive again."

Chance cursed himself for having put the caller on speaker. Now he'd have to go twelve rounds with the team over exchanging himself for Emma.

Oh, how right he was. They wouldn't hear any of it. Ilsa and Winston tried it with argumentation. "You're not thinking clearly! This is a trap!"

Guerrero, in the meantime, gave Ames a meaningful look. She wasn't exactly sure what he was hinting it, till he tilted his head and stared straight at the chair she was sitting on. She felt underneath it, groped around a little – oh, a taser…

Three minutes later Chance was tied up and unconscious in the trunk of Guerrero's new car while they were heading towards the meeting place Emma's kidnapper had told them in his second call, only seconds after they had brought Chance down. His instructions had been very simple: They would wait at a railroad crossing for a freight train passing by. The train would go extraordinarily slow. One of the goods wagons would be open. One of them would jump in and they (apparently the kidnapper had hired himself a crew) would throw out Emma on the other side.

They hadn't decided yet how to proceed – the time frame they had been given had been too small to come to a decision at the office, so they had to wing it out on site.

Which was, in hindsight, a good thing, because while driving to the railroad crossing, Guerrero thought of something.

"I don't believe for a second he'll really give Emma back", Winston snarled, getting out of the van.

"Well, it's worth a try, dude, isn't it?", Guerrero replied almost casually, climbing out of his own car.

Everybody stared at him in disbelief. He stared back at them, almost as defiantly as Chance had only a couple of minutes ago. Then…

DISMISSIVE SNORT

"Cause not for real. Chance is the crazy here. I'm going to jump at the wagon and miss. Will be a hard fall but I think I can manage. It must look as if it was an accident, as if I really tried to get in – this will buy us time. Haven't you noticed how precisely the calls are timed? He always knows exactly when we are all together and calls as if on cue. There's probably a bug hidden somewhere in the office and where there's a bug, there's a signal. While he sets up a new scenario for the next "exchange", we'll try and track him down through the signal."

Good plan.

If only they had shared it with Chance… But he was in the trunk, supposedly unconscious, but actually working frantically on picking the lock.

From his point of view he got out right in time to see Guerrero getting ready to jump into that wagon.

No way he was going to let Guerrero sacrifice himself. No way.

Chance pushed him aside just in time to jump into the wagon himself. Of course there was no Emma inside. As he hit the wagon's floor, a searing pain shot through his ankle. The wagon's doors slammed shut and he was surrounded by pitch black darkness as the train suddenly picked up speed.

Of course the team followed the train, managed to make it stop, but it was too late: By the time they got to the wagon, it was empty.


	76. Chapter 76

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

Even before they actually found the bug, Guerrero knew he would need assistance and placed a telephone call.

Sergej was only too happy to get a break from meanwhile pregnant Daisy.

"She keeps throwing up all the time! And she suddenly can't stand smells anymore. Any kind of smell! The mustard on meat sandwiches is enough to send her running!"

"Told you not to make babies with her, dude", Guerrero replied drily in an "it's all your own fault"-tone.

With Sergej's and Guerrero's abilities united, they were able to track the bug's signal back to its source within two hours of the abduction.

Two hours in which all sorts of horrible things could happen to Chance and, yes, Emma too.

The fact that the kidnapper hadn't called again didn't bode well.

They were all well aware of that, but even Ilsa, new to this game, didn't voice it. It would have made no sense. They were doing all they could. Chance was tough, so was Emma. All they could hope was that they'd somehow hang in there till they found them.

"It's a house in a rather remote area outside San Francisco city." Guerrero showed them a satellite photo of the area and pointed out the building in question. The house was beautiful, according to streetview a craftsman house, white facade, dark red frames, with stained windows.

"Ilsa and Sergej create a diversion on the street to draw the guards' attention. Judging from the photo there'll be at least two. Let's hope they take the bait. Ames takes them out with the taser gun, Guerrero will mousehole his way in from the adjacent home's garage on the right. Thank God it's vacant right now. I take the back door."

The fact that Winston and Guerrero devised that plan in such consensus, without a single disagreement, no shouting, yelling, accusing whatsoever, gave them all the creeps.

Including Winston and Guerrero.

"So it'll be a FISH and CHIPS operation…", Ilsa mused, staring at the photo.

They all stared at Ilsa.

"I grew up in Belfast…", she said quietly.

"Just the FISH part, hopefully", Guerrero said, locking eyes with her. He had suspected before, from the expression on her face and the way she absentmindedly rubbed her shoulder, that the whole operation was bringing back some sort of bad memories. The mentioning of Belfast confirmed his suspicions. Ilsa had seen urban warfare.

_Will you manage?_, said his eyes.

She blinked once. _Yes. _

"We have to be really fast and really silent", Winston continued. "We cannot have the cops on site. It's important that once the guards are unconscious you lock them up in the car quickly. Ames can't help you, we need her as backup for any guards that didn't take the bait."

Sergej and Ilsa nodded. Sergej rather reluctantly. He was a computer guy, so not into this whole face-to-face confrontation thing. But they couldn't possibly let Ilsa create the distraction alone and since Guerrero had helped him out of more than one tight spot…

Ames took a deep breath of the uneasy kind, too. Since the Alejandro incident she hadn't touched a weapon. She would have really preferred to quietly sneak in through the attic window or something, but there was no time for subtlety. Time was running out, this had to go down fast and hard.

And down fast and hard it went.

... ... ...

The guards smelled the trap. Ames was quick with the taser gun, but not quick enough. Sergej got hit in the stomach area and it looked bad. Everything in Ilsa screamed to get an ambulance, but Sergej was on more than one wanted list, including the Russian Secret Service's, it would have put Chance and Emma at risk, calling for outside help was not an option.

With the two unconscious thugs crammed into the trunk of Guerrero's car, bleeding Sergej riding shotgun and her hands sticky from his blood, she raced off in order to get to the medical contact Sergej had told her about through clenched teeth.

Leaving the others behind, leaving Chance behind, was the hardest thing she had ever done, but there was no chance for Sergej except her getting him to an underground doctor as fast as possible.

"We'll make it, Ilsa", Guerrero told her via earpiece. The next thing she heard was an explosion, then muffled gunshots, the bursting of glass, wood, a single scream.

Ames?

Running footsteps.

Forcing herself to adhere the speed limit was almost killing her, but she couldn't risk being waved down by cops right now. Sergej was gurgling, blood was coming out of his mouth, he couldn't talk anymore and barely breathe, but he had pulled out his cell phone, desperately trying to write a text message.

Daisy.

The shooting sounds had subsided, but that didn't make anything better. What she heard next made her blood freeze.

"He's not here!" Winston shouting via earpiece. "Chance is not here! They're not here!"

"DUDE! DON'T TOUCH THAT!" Guerrero's voice.

A single gunshot.

"What's going on? What's going on? What the bloody hell is going on?"

The car swerved.

Ilsa barely managed to get control over the steering wheel again. Sergej had fallen unconscious. She wasn't sure he was still breathing. More blood was coming out of his mouth, it look thick and dark.

"Chance and Emma aren't here. Guerrero shot the caller. He was sitting at some kind of computer table and when we came in he pressed a button. Guerrero is looking at it right now." Winston sounded very concerned.

Ilsa brought the car to a screeching halt in front of a veterinarian's back door. She dashed to the door, banged against it and when the door opened, she grabbed the vet by his wrist and dragged him over to the car. When she opened the passenger's door, Sergej limply sagged against them.

... ... ...

Smeared with Sergej's blood, crouching on the floor of the vet's office while the vet was frantically trying to revive him on a table meant for dogs, she pressed her soiled hand against the earpiece and whispered: "Please tell me you've got good news."

It took a long while before anyone answered.


	77. Chapter 77

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_**A/N: A big thank you to tree979 who betaed this**_

"Ilsa? You there?" Ilsa nodded before she realized that Winston could only hear her, not see her. The vet was standing in front of her, shoulders slumped, dropping his bloody gloves to the floor, shaking his head in a resigned gesture.

"Sergej", she whispered.

She needn't say more.

A sob from Ames came in via earpiece. The men remained silent for a moment. There was no way to tell how Guerrero reacted to the news, but before Winston tried to speak again, he had to swallow hard.

"Looks like the computer table is a control center for the electronics of another house somewhere. Guerrero can't say yet where it is, the information is encrypted. We think Emma and Chance are in that house and we also think it might have been designed as some sort of giant torture chamber. There's a ground plan – some rooms are labeled with "glass", others with "barbed wire", "electro shock floor" and "deep freezer"."

"Dude wanted to sent them through a labyrinth of horrors like rats." Guerrero's voice, finally. It was concentrated, devoid of any sign of how he felt about Sergej. Ilsa had to confess, even with the dead man's blood all over her body, all she could think about right now was Chance.

"I think I've just switched off the jammer signal that prevented Emma's earpiece from working. If she's still got it with her…"

Ilsa took money from her wallet, enough to make the vet go away for a while. Predictably he didn't feel comfortable with a dead body in his treatment room, but the amount of cash Ilsa stuffed into his hands helped. He exited the room, leaving her alone, barely able to stand.

"Emma? Emma?", she could hear Winston asking while she staggered over to the sink and turned on the water, desperate to get the dried up blood off her hands.

She was very shaken.

… … …

In a house somewhere, Emma slowly woke from deep drug induced slumber. There was a voice that just didn't want to leave her alone. With great difficulty, she raised herself to a sitting position. It took her a moment before she realized that it was Chance's limp body holding her back.

"Yes?", she finally managed to croak.

"Is Chance with you? Is he alive?"

She turned to the body by her side, reached for a wrist. The skin felt warm and yes, a pulse was detectable. "Chance…" She shoved him and he slowly started waking up, too.

"Give him your earpiece." Guerrero's tone made it very clear that this was an order, not a suggestion. Too drowsy to protest, she helped Chance to slip it into his ear.

"You there, bro? Where are you?" Chance's vision was still swimming. It took him a moment to take in the moldy black walls and the dirty stone floor. "Cellar", he finally coughed. Searing pain was shooting upwards from his foot through the rest of his body. He must have sprained his ankle when landing inside the wagon.

"Thought so", Guerrero replied. "The house is like a maze full of nasty traps. All doors are sealed by electronic locks. Guess he wanted to lead you through the traps by opening one door at a time." The look on Guerrero's face, that only Ames and Winston could see, indicated that the bastard got off way too lightly with a quick, clean shot. Had he still been alive, Guerrero would have taken his time with him.

And Winston would have probably helped.

They all knew how much Sergej must have suffered in the last few minutes of his life, and so far nobody wanted to think about Daisy yet.

Ilsa could hear Guerrero's fingers flying quickly over a computer's keyboard.

"I think I've just overridden the lock system. With the ground plan here I think I can guide you outside. I'll keep all doors that lead to traps closed. We don't know where the building is yet, so you've got to get out of there by yourselves."

"What else?", Chance panted. Of course he had picked up the strain in Guerrero's voice.

"Dude pressed a button a second before I shot him. Don't know what it was for yet."

"Gas?" Chance recognized the symptoms of gas poisoning when he felt them. "Carbon monoxide maybe?"

Oh damn. That explained the strange bar chart on the left side of the screen. Gas was continuously streaming in through the air vents.

Continuously and fast.

Winston slammed a fist into one of the walls. He fought the urge to empty the rest of his ammo into the lifeless bastard.

"I'll help you, come on, we need to climb those stairs." Emma's voice, faint, barely caught by the microphone. She pulled Chance to his feet. He was heavy and there was no real strength in his muscles. He gave a pained groan as she threw his arm around her shoulders and started dragging him towards the flight of stairs that led up to the ground floor.

Guerrero was frantically typing into the computer, desperately trying to shut the gas down. "The air conditioning is protected with an additional code. Can't hack it in time. You've got to get the hell out of there!"

"We haven't even made it up half the stairs yet", Emma shouted. She wasn't sure if the team could hear her. "Chance, I need your help here."

But carbon monoxide makes you tired. Very tired. And if you're already tired with everything… with life….

"Drop me here." Chance's voice.

Everyone froze, including Emma.

Ames pressed her hands to her mouth in wordless terror.

"This is senseless. I can't move. The leg is busted. I'm too heavy. We'll never make it out on time." He coughed. "I can hear how fast the gas is streaming in. I'm slowing you down. Get out of here."

Chance wriggled free of Emma's grasp and let himself sink to the floor. Carbon monoxide poisoning wasn't that bad of a death. It made you drowsy, sent you off to sleep, then unconsciousness. You suffocated, yes, but you didn't notice. There were a lot worse ways he could have gone.

He felt at peace with this solution.

_Peace._

"No! She's not going to do that!" Ilsa, screaming in the vet's treatment room.

Emma looked at Chance. The expression on his face was so… calm. There was nothing but his silent permission for her to leave him there. And she couldn't lift him up. She really couldn't.

"I'm sorry", they heard her whisper. Then retreating footsteps.

"I'm going to KILL her for that!" Ilsa was beside herself.

"Not if I get to her first", Winston muttered, devastated.

Guerrero shot him a "don't steal my lines"- look and hit the earpiece's communicator button. "Chance, it's not too late. The gas is accumulating in the lowest parts of the house first. If you get up, you'll catch enough fresh air to make it to the outside."

Chance voice was hoarse and a bit croaky, but unmistakably firm: "It's been a hell of a ride, Guerrero, but that's it. I… want to sleep. I'm sorry for all the trouble I caused you… all of you… it's over for good this time…." He paused, then: "Thank you."

Silence.

Ames started sobbing loudly. Ilsa stared at her distorted reflection in one of the vet's stainless steel drawers, lost. Slowly she began to tremble, first her hands, then the rest of her body. This wasn't happening. No.

Guerrero looked at Winston with an expression that said "grasping at straws, dude". Then he hit the communicator button again. He had to do it twice, his wasn't in complete control of his fingers anymore. "Chance, cut the fucking good-bye speech crap." He took a deep breath. This was fifty-fifty.

"You've got a son. You hear me, bro? You've. Got. A. Son. You wanna meet him? GET UP!"


	78. kizuna means

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_**A/N: A big thank you to tree979 who prevented me from making a horrible plot decision at the very last minute!**_

_**~ kizuna means ~**_

_The warehouse._

Outside the sun was setting. Judging from the sounds of the elevator, Winston had just reached the ground floor. Chance slumped down on the sofa, cocked his eyebrows and rested his eyes on Guerrero. "Spill it out."

His throat felt a bit dry and he looked around for a glass of water. When none was in sight he shrugged and turned his attention back to his friend, who was maintaining iron silence. "Winston's food in the fridge has remained suspiciously untouched lately. He's starting to gain weight."

No reaction from Guerrero.

"There's a scratch on the paint job of the ElDo… you haven't even tried to get hold of the perpetrator."

Something like irritation lit up in Guerrero's eyes.

Whoa.

"You _didn't notice_ there was a scratch on the door?" Chance cleared his throat. Damn, he needed something to drink. But this was important.

Guerrero didn't reply.

"Now you're seriously creeping me out. _You_ didn't notice that scratch?" Chance groped around the couch. Where was the bottle of Bourbon he usually kept here? "Well, don't worry, Winston and I had a word with the guy who did it. He's going to pay the bill."

Now it was Guerrero's turn to raise an eyebrow.

"It was Winston's idea." Chance really wished he had something to drink, his voice was getting more croaky by the minute. "Guess he wanted to make sure the guy wouldn't end up floating in the Bay with a cut throat…"

A dismissive snort from Guerrero.

"What? Suddenly your reputation doesn't matter anymore? What's gotten into you?" Chance studied him carefully, taking his time to watch his face, his posture, his hands…

_"You _are crept out!"

"Pregnant", was all Guerrero managed to say. Just a single word, but it carried all the weight he had felt for the past few weeks – as a pressure on his chest at night, a burden on his shoulders, a net around his heart.

For a long while, Chance said nothing, just let the information sink in. A shiver ran down his spine. Guerrero had always made sure he had no detectable weaknesses, no vulnerable spots that could be used against him.

This had to be, by his standards, a major disaster.

And Chance definitely didn't want to be in his shoes right now.

Protecting a child in the world they lived in?

A nightmare.

No use in pointing that out, though. Judging from his behavior lately, Guerrero had spent a lot of time mulling the issue over.

"You're not alone in this", he finally coughed, really wishing he knew where he'd put the Bourbon. "I've got your back and so does Winston."

A warning look, brief but very clear.

"No, I'm not going to tell him. But we've got your back."

Another warning look.

"_I_'ve got your back."

Satisfied nod. And the flicker of a smile.

"Let's hope it's not a girl…" Chance massaged his throat.

A questioning frown from Guerrero.

"Imagine she inherits your good looks…"

They both burst out laughing.

"Don't know about you, but I need a drink, dude." Guerrero got up, apparently knowing where to find the damn Bourbon.

Although everything in Chance screamed for something to quench his thirst, he stopped him nevertheless. "Who's the mother?"

"Dude…"

Chance shot forward, grabbed his wrist and grabbed it hard. "I want to know."

Guerrero struggled, tried to pull his wrist free.

The shattering sound of a glass crashing to the floor.

"I WANT TO KNOW!"

"Chance! Chance!" Guerrero's voice changed, became more high-pitched, adopted a British accent. His face morphed, took on female features...

The pounding of feet up a metal stairway.

"Dude, you're breaking Ilsa's wrist."

Chance opened his eyes, found himself staring at the concerned faces of Winston, Guerrero, Ames and Ilsa. Ilsa's was more contorted with pain than concerned, though.

"It's okay, bro, you're back home." Guerrero slowly bent over and started to pry his friend's fingers from Ilsa's wrist. Chance let that happen with surprisingly little resistance.

That should have tipped Guerrero off, but let's face it, they were all a bit shaken after the events of the past few days. Chance clutched his hand tight, entangled his fingers with his own and started twisting them in an extremely painful move.

"Get out of here. All of you", Guerrero managed to hiss through clenched teeth. The others reluctantly filed out, with Winston hovering on the threshold.

"Get out." Guerrero's voice was reduced to a strained whisper, more from the decision he had just made than from the pain.

He would not fight back. Goddamn gas and everything else was still messing with Chance's brain. He would surely not fight back.

The pain Chance was inflicting was so bad, Guerrero had no choice but to follow Chance's pull, allow him to slowly drag him down on the bed and take away his glasses. Damn smart bastard.

In slow motion Chance increased his hold of him to the shoulder region, twisted his whole left arm and pressed him down on the mattress, one knee pinning him firmly, putting pressure on the vertebra of the loin, the back's most vulnerable part.

"You knew", Chance coughed. "And you didn't tell me."

"Drink something, dude. Your throat must be killing you."

"How long?" Chance's coughing increased.

A big shadow, surprisingly quiet, slipped back into the room.

"We knew for a couple of days, not more. Come on Chance, drink this." Winston's hand on his shoulder, heavy, firm, reassuring. Chance reluctantly released Guerrero and glanced at the promising looking glass of water Winston was offering him.

"You spiked it?"

Winston shook his head. "No."

Together with Guerrero he slowly turned around Chance, gradually pushing him back into the sheets. Chance sipped at the water, then emptied the glass completely. Blinking his eyes, he waited for some sort of drowsiness setting in.

Nothing happened.

"I'm going to get my notebook", Guerrero told him.


	79. Chapter 79

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_**A/N: Thank you, PocketSevens for helping with the Ilsa part! **_

Guerrero left the door to Chance's bedroom open as he headed downstairs to get his notebook, so they could hear what happened next:

A low buzz signaled that someone on the street had rung the office's doorbell.

"Ilsa? Your wrist okay again?", Guerrero yelled from the conference room where he was probably checking the security cam feed.

"Yes, don't worry, it was just…"

"Then could you go downstairs? It's an informant, delivering material for Chance. Don't want him to come up here. He expects payment. Not more than a hundred bucks!"

The door to Ilsa's office was slammed shut so vehemently, the glass in the frame slightly clattered. The sound was followed by the angry clicking of high heels and muffled murmur, something along the lines of "Could be in Monaco right now, but no…", "Someone explain to me again why…" and finally a very exasperated "Damn thugs! All of them!" before a low hiss indicated that she had entered the elevator and was riding downstairs.

Guerrero had his own special way of making sure Ilsa would stay on her feet and not brood too much about recent developments…. He could tell from the shadows underneath her eyes she was sleeping badly and during the latest telephone conversation with the real estate people she'd bordered on hysterical. Time to get her mind off things.

When he came back he placed the notebook on Chance's lap and opened a window that showed a very official, i.e. governmental looking, search mask.

"Acquired this a couple of months ago", Guerrero explained. "Took me ages to install… It allows me access to all law enforcement DNA data bases worldwide. The basic idea was to check where you had left DNA during jobs and if there was a way to delete your traces from the system with a well-place virus or something…"

Winston handed Chance another glass of water, but Chance didn't drink it, just grasped it absent-mindedly.

"Never got this far, though." Guerrero pressed his lips together. "A seven years old case from Vienna popped up. Five year old boy plays outside, it's summer, he isn't wearing shoes, he steps into a syringe."

Chance tensed and Winston put a reassuring hand on his arm.

"He was lucky, the needle wasn't infected, but the police filed the boy's DNA for comparison, should they ever get hold of the syringe's owner. This program doesn't only show complete matches, it also lists similarities. You share fifty percent of your alleles with that boy. He's your son."

Guerrero opened another window, showing him the copy of a police report written in German.

"Ash Marx, twelve now, son of Philippa Marx, father unknown. Couldn't get a picture yet, but maybe there'll be one in the delivery." The ding of the elevator indicated that Ilsa was back in the office.

Chance frowned. "Philippa Marx? Doesn't ring a bell."

"It's an alias", Winston, unable to keep still anymore, chimed in. "She started using it about nine years ago. Boy probably got too old to keep switching names without him noticing. Guerrero found traces of her all over Europe and the USA, every now and then even Asia… she seems to be on the run, but we don't know yet from whom… "

_"Hopefully not from me..."_, Chance mused. If she - whoever "she" was - had somehow gotten wind of his profession, found out what he was at the time of the conception...

"Her online name is fips1212 – seems to be her nickname…", Guerrero added. "She's a freelancer, writes instructions for all sorts of technical equipment. Allows her to move whenever it pleases her. Boy gets homeschooled."

Of course the mother of his child had to be a fugitive of some sort. Chance shook his head. Why should this be more uncomplicated than anything else in his life? It only fit.

"Ash…", he said thoughtfully. "As in... Ashton?"

Winston and Guerrero exchanged glances for a moment, then Winston coughed. "Ashley. Ash as in Ashley."

Chance could only stare at him. "My son's called _Ashley_?"

"You know, bro, that's life. One moment you're an ex-assassin with a conscience problem, the next you've got a son named Ashley from a woman named Fips." For a tiny moment it looked as if Guerrero was holding his breath... then he burst into laughter and so did Winston and Chance.

"I'm very happy for you, you know that?" Winston patted Chance on the shoulder.

Ilsa poked her head in, large brown envelope in hands.

"Come in, it's safe now", Chance told her.

She weighed the envelope in her hands, then gave it to Guerrero in a small gesture of defiance. She had been so worried about Chance!

"I'm sorry", he said, and they both knew he was talking about more than just the wrist.

"I'd shoot him again in a heartbeat", she said.

He nodded, slowly, for once not feeling weighed down by guilt. Ilsa decided that this special moment was for the men alone and walked off.

Guerrero opened the envelope and retrieved an enlarged black and white photo and a sheet of paper. He handed Chance the photo and read through the text on the paper. "Just a picture of Philippa, I fear. She seems to be hell-bent to keep the boy away from the public eye."

Chance took the photo and looked at it. It showed a woman in her thirties, black, probably dyed shoulder-length hair, round face, a bit chubby round the hips. She didn't seem to be terribly tall. Gray eyes? It was hard to tell from the shot.

He studied it for a long moment, while Guerrero read and then reread the additional information on the enclosed sheet of paper. Winston watched them both and the time they took to process what they were looking it was starting to make him uneasy fast. Their silence started to become palpable.

Not a good sign.

When Chance finally put down the photo on the bed, he knew something was very wrong.

"I've never seen that woman in my life."


	80. Chapter 80

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

"You sure, Chance?", Winston asked. "Twelve years is a long time."

Chance shook his head. "I've never seen her."

They both noticed Guerrero's suspicious silence at the same time.

"What is it?" Chance's eyes practically bore into him. Guerrero wasn't simply silent. He was black hole silent, dungeon silent, burnt down house silent.

"Spit it out!"

"This is additional information…" Guerrero slowly handed Chance the sheet of paper he had been staring at. "The informant who brought the picture has talked to a couple of people who have actually met this Philippa… last paragraph…"

_She used a word that reminded me of my childhood days in the Waikato region, New Zealand. The term was very special, only used by the folks of Whangamata. I asked her if she was a kiwi, if she was coming from there, but didn't get a straight answer out of her. _

"Does Whangamata ring a bell?" It wasn't really a question. Guerrero knew the answer. Of course it did.

This Philippa, coming from Whangamata, a hick town in New Zealand? This couldn't be a coincidence.

_The past always comes catching up with you._

Chance pushed back the notebook on his lap so violently, Winston had to dash forward and catch it before it crashed to the floor. Batting away any attempts of Winston to steady him, Chance clambered out of the bed. Clad only in drawstring pants, he staggered away from them, out of the room. Winston wanted to rush after him, but a warning look from Guerrero made him stop dead in his tracks.

"He's going up on the roof!", he protested.

"Don't worry, he just needs a bit of breath." Guerrero looked as if he needed a bit of breath, too.

"Would you mind telling me what the hell…?"

… … …

They had a job in the Waikato region that took a bit of sticking around. The target was making things ridiculously complicated. They had to stake him out for several weeks. He was pretty paranoid, changed his way to work all the time, employed several bodyguards… One day during another dull surveillance session Junior noticed this girl…

Guerrero knew his friend was lost the second he laid eyes on her for the first time. She was his type – definitely pretty: slim, quite tall, blond, flowing mane… but that wasn't the point. She had that gleam in her eyes, this hint of mischief Junior was always looking for in his lady friends.

Juliet. Oh damn, Juliet.

… … …

Chance looked up to the sky and couldn't help but notice how ridiculously pale it looked, compared to how he remembered the one in New Zealand, so goddamn many years ago.

A little more than twelve, to be exactly.

He closed his eyes and allowed the memories to come back and overflow him like driftwood on a beach.

Of course he hadn't read the book she was pouring over when he first approached her. Well, he was good at pretending, wasn't he? She saw through him after about two seconds. But she played along, tried to trap him, asked questions that would reveal he didn't know a thing about the story. He managed to wriggle his way around them every single time.

She studied at Waikato University, but she was from Whangamata.

A week later Guerrero told him he'd manage surveillance alone and lifted him of all duties for the weekend.

In hindsight Guerrero regretted that decision, for it was that weekend that did it.

She giggled as he pulled her back into the sheets. "We've got all the time in the world", he whispered against her bare back and breathed a flurry of sot kisses along her spine.

Later she took him to the blowhole at Whiritoa beach. The wind tugged at her hair, made it flow in a golden stream. She laughed and fell into his arms.

When Junior came back he had this idiotic idea firmly cemented in his head.

… … …

"He told her what he was and she totally freaked. Said she never wanted to see him again." Guerrero shrugged. "Told him so, but… you know he is… Well, the job was done, we left New Zealand, didn't hear from her again… till a couple of months later news came in some of the Old Man's enemies were after her."

Guerrero paused, took off his glasses and wiped them. "Didn't make any sense to me back then. What did they want with a short-time mistress of Junior's? If she had a child from him, however…"

"They could have used the child to pressurize Chance into going against the Old Man", Winston concluded.

Guerrero briefly nodded, still wiping his glasses. "Chance tried to reach her but couldn't get hold of her. Even went back to Whangamata, but she had pulled a disappearing act. Then one day the Old Man called him into his office, told him she was dead."

He paused, face unreadable, but there was a faint, dull something in his eyes. Sadness? Pity? Winston wondered what he might remember about Chance's reaction to the news.

"It was a messy job, heavy-calibered gun, chest wound – she bled to death." He put his glasses back on. The faint something disappeared.

"Juliet… After all these years. Juliet." He almost spat it out.

"What is going on?", Ilsa asked, hovering on the doorstep. She was really getting better at moving around silently. They hadn't heard her coming. Or maybe they had just been too preoccupied. "I heard Chance go up on the roof… Do you think that's wise, letting him alone there, so shortly after he almost…?" The expression on _her_ face was definitely painful. "Who is Juliet?"

Guerrero pressed his lips together, looked at Winston, looked at Ilsa.

"Juliet is the reason Chance didn't stay with Maria. And the reason he left Winston behind... Didn't want to get attached anymore. Too dangerous."

It took them a while to let that sink in.

Behind them pit-pat on the stairs indicated that Ames had been listening in the whole time and was determined to put her two cents in. She definitely had enough of all that maudlin talk. There was a problem at hand, for heaven's sake!

"Well, time to talk to that Philippa chick, isn't it?"

Truer words had never been spoken.


	81. Chapter 81

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

"I can see her on the security feed!" Ilsa's eyes were practically glued to the monitor. She still couldn't believe they had trusted her with such a crucial part of the plan. Oh good Lord, if she messed _this _up…

"Okay Ilsa, one more time…" Winston's voice via earpiece. "Just keep cool, if you're overly excited she'll sense something is off and most likely bolt. Be yourself, an employer interviewing a potential employee. Ask her a couple of questions, offer her a cup of coffee, put her at ease. Once she's relaxed and settled, go deeper, turn the conversation towards her youth, her family… At that point Chance will make his entrance, he'll introduce himself, let's see how things go from there…"

"If they don't go well, Ames and I are blocking the entrances upstairs and downstairs…", Guerrero chimed in.

"Remember, we just want to talk to her – no knock outs, no tasering and NO drugs in the coffee." Chance's voice was very firm.

"Yeah, why go the easy way…", Guerrero grumbled.

Chance didn't reply. He was still poring over Juliet's autopsy report. Back then he hadn't wanted Guerrero to get it for him, too painful. Now he could kick himself for that decision. It clearly stated that Juliet had given birth a very short time prior to her death, two or three days maximum. The police had searched for the baby quite intensely but had come up with nothing. If he had read that twelve years ago…

Damn it.

And there was also the way Juliet had died, bleeding to death from a horrible chest wound… Guerrero had removed the morgue shots before handing him the file, but his mind was imaginative enough to create pictures from the information in the text.

… … …

It sounded like a very lucrative job – writing instructions for the Marshall Pucci Foundation, instructions that people could actually understand.

The Foundation had recently acquired new equipment needed for refugee field hospitals, the manuals were a catastrophe, they needed someone with experience in intercultural sensitive writing.

Had she checked the part with the newly acquired equipment?

Double-checked.

Nevertheless… all jobs that required her physical presence in contrast to jobs that came in via internet and could be carried out via internet made her nervous.

Ilsa Pucci, chairwoman of the Marshall Pucci Foundation, had insisted on talking to her in person. It was a big job with far reaching consequences, should something go wrong, and this Pucci woman was known for being thorough when picking employees. Her request was in accordance with everything she had heard about her.

God knew they could do with the money. Ash was stashed away safely. She had a history of being paranoid.

But still… her gut feeling told her to be careful and her gut feeling had saved them more than once.

She was almost at the door of the non-descript office building where the Marshall Pucci Foundation kept a small branch office. Up on the seventh floor Ilsa Pucci was waiting for her.

On the seventh floor. The mere idea made her feel trapped.

Philippa decided to trust her gut feeling and turned away from the door, carefully avoiding the range of the security cam right above the entrance.

Well, she didn't know about the second cam Guerrero had installed the night before…

… … …

"I think she smelt the rat, Chance."

Chance took a deep breath. "Ilsa, stay where you are. I'll head north. Winston, can you hack into the traffic cams? Ames, I need you to cover the western part. Guerrero, don't scare her."

"She's the only one who knows where the boy is. We don't want her to end up underneath a street car or something", Winston added, already connecting the van's monitors with the city's traffic video feed.

"Then _you_ better stay hidden", Guerrero replied. Judging from the sound of it, he was running down a flight of stairs.

"Wiseass."

… … …

Casually checking the reflections in the shop and car windows, Philippa made her way down the street. Her car was parked in the other direction, but she didn't want to lead eventual pursuers there. With the traffic cams installed everywhere it was possible to track her back to her hotel. Ash wasn't there, of course, but the further away from any hideout of hers she shook off her pursuers, the better.

If there were any, that is…

She casually snarfed a baseball cap from a stall. Rule number one when being on the run: Change your appearance and blend in. One of the reasons she always wore multiple layers of clothes...

A group of tourists came walking towards her. With an elegant turn she joined them, disposing of her blue blazer in a trash can, tying up her hair in a pony tail and putting on the cap.

"Looks like she read a Robert Ludlum novel or two…" Winston had lost her for a moment, but working with Chance and Guerrero had taught him a lot. After a brief moment of panic he was onto her again. "She's heading your way, Ames. The group of tourists."

Philippa, however, had no intention of sticking around the tourists long enough for someone starting to ask questions. She was already scouting the street for her Holy Man getaway.

Stupid name, yes. But she had developed this form of escape after watching the Eddie Murphy movie. It was quite risky and she didn't use it often – if anything happened to her, Ash would be alone – but it was effective.

There it was, a bus. Going at a rather high speed. Exactly what she had been looking for.

Just as smoothly as she had weaved into the group, she broke away from it, stepped onto the road and, suddenly switching into actual bolting mode, dashed across it, making cars come to a screeching halt and barely escaping the bus' bumper.

Not wasting a second on looking back at the havoc she'd just wreaked, Philippa dived into a narrow side street. She did feel sorry for anyone who got hurt because of her stunt, especially if she was just being paranoid and no one was after her after all, but she definitely couldn't afford taking any chances.

Ah, damn, a van was blocking the far end of the street. Great, now she had to...

"Nicely done", a voice said behind her back.

The mere fact that someone was talking to her like that made her go for her gun. When she turned around and laid eyes on the middle-aged, blond man that was blocking the way back to the main street, however, she released the safety catch and aimed straight at his chest.

Chance, his weapon undrawn, raised his hands: "Whoa. Look, I know this is a scary situation, a stranger following you and all, but I just want to talk to you…"

"I know who you are", Philippa hissed. She had always suspected it, but actually seeing the living proof of her assumption was outright shocking. Ash was the spitting image of his father.

Chance could have disarmed her. Judging from her stance she knew what she was doing, but he could have disarmed her. He just figured it wouldn't be the most diplomatic beginning to the conversation he was hoping for. She was the only one who knew where Ash was. "Well, in that case maybe you'd like to…"

She cut him off again: "JuJu told me exactly two things before she died. A – Don't trust anyone and B – The boy's father is an assassin."

At that very moment a hard shove against her back knocked her into the dirt, sending her gun skidding away. Before she knew it, someone was jerking her arms backwards and violently pinning her down with his knee.

"Guerrero…", Chance groaned.

"What, dude? She's not unconscious!"


	82. Chapter 82

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

"We could use duct tape instead… or cuffs…"

Guerrero didn't even bother answering Chance as he tied Philippa to a chair in Winston's office.

"Cable ties cut into flesh just as easily as a hot knife into butter, so don't pull at them unless you like bleeding wounds", he told her.

"Guerrero…." More protest from Chance.

"She would have shot you, dude, without second thought. Better safe than sorry." He turned to Philippa once more: "Nothing personal."

Throwing Chance a look that said "be careful, bro", he exited the room.

Chance tried one of his million dollar smiles, hoping to put her at ease a little. Philippa kept staring daggers at him.

"Look, I know the circumstances speak against me, but I really don't want to harm you or ... Ash." It still felt strange, saying his son's name. "All I want is that you hear me out. I didn't know Juliet had been pregnant, I only just…"

Her eyes – gray indeed – were opaque and cold as ice. He wouldn't get through to her, not this way.

"You called her JuJu… you were friends, weren't you?", he tried again.

This time his words at least had some form of detectable impact on her. "Best friends", she replied, gray eyes looking at him, deep sadness emerging in them. "Fips and JuJu. Since childhood."

"Tell me what happened." Under normal circumstances Chance would have reached out and touched her hand, but given the fact that she was tied up after having been violently brought down by Guerrero twice on her way to and from the van – she really shouldn't have struggled – he thought better of it.

"I helped delivering Ash. In a hotel room in Auckland. There were people after her, people who had moles in the police force and could get hold of hospital records." Philippa leaned back in the chair, as much away from Chance as her tied position allowed, and folded her untied legs. Her eyes were firmly fixed on a point in the distance now. "They made her an offer, months before Ash's birth. The child against her freedom and a substantial amount of money." She paused. "But JuJu was hell-bent on protecting her kid. She ran. Two days after Ash was born they found her, killed her. All I could do was grab him and run."

A meteorologist in the room would probably have detected a sudden drop of temperature after Philippa had finished her story.

Crossing his arms, Chance wordlessly studied her for a long while and as he did so, his face slowly turned hard. "You're lying", he finally said, all traces of trying to put her at ease gone from his voice.

Maybe surprised, but astonishingly composed, given her situation, she turned her face to look at him. "If I were you, I would accept this version of the story. You don't want to know the truth, trust me."

He walked over to her and tightened the cable fixers. "Tell me", he said.

Face defiant, Philippa began to speak again. "When she first found out she was pregnant, JuJu wanted to be a hero. She wanted to protect her child at all costs. These people made contact with her shortly after her pregnancy was confirmed, before she told anyone, that's how she figured out they were hacking her medical records. She went to the police and they told her they'd keep her safe. On the way to the safe house, however, she discovered that the officer who was supposed to protect her was in their pockets. She barely escaped."

Philippa turned her face away to stare at the point in the distance again. Her hands were clenching and she slightly hunched over as she continued. "This is the part you don't want to hear."

Chance just nodded at her, urged her to start, face still a stony mask.

"All those months on the run… JuJu's determination and heroism eroded… gradually at first, but after that horrible delivery in the hotel room she was broken. She couldn't go on anymore and she took up her hunters' offer. She was willing to hand over Ash." Philippa paused again. "Don't blame her. All she wanted was peace and her old life back… Well, they came to collect Ash, but they had no intention of keeping their promise. She smelt the rat in the last minute, tried to run, they shot her… I took Ash and fled." She slightly lifted one shoulder in kind of a half-shrug.

Again, Chance didn't say a word. A minute passed by. The silence in the room was stretching to eternity. Then he suddenly pushed himself off the wall. Like a tiger he crossed the short distance between him and her and gave her chair a violent shove. "You're still lying!", he hissed.

Philippa laughed bitterly, straight into his face. "She wanted to hand the boy over. _That's_ the truth!"

Like iron claws Chance's hands closed around her wrists. "But _you_ killed her."

She didn't need to answer. It was written all over her face – the shock, the shame … the truth.

"We were arguing", she whispered. "She wanted to take Ash and bring him to the meeting point. I was just trying to stop her… I didn't mean to pull the trigger… all I wanted to do was scare her… it was an accident."

Chance recoiled from her, back to the other end of the room, putting as much distance between them as possible. Again, silence stretched between them, this time only slightly interrupted by Philippa, trying to swallow her tears away.

"What's his real name?", Chance finally asked.

This got her attention. She looked up, stared at him, tear-streaked face but eyes opaque again. "His name is Ashley."

"Juliet would have never chosen that name. She told me she liked Maori names, was proud of her country's heritage, she would have given her son one. WHAT'S HIS REAL NAME?"

"He's _my_ son and his name is Ashley", Philippa spat.

"No, he's not. He's mine and Juliet's and you are nothing but his mother's murderer." Chance was grasping the edge of Winston's desk, desperately trying to keep himself from acting on what he was feeling right now.

Philippa mumbled something he didn't quite get, a phrase, a sentence… it sounded familiar, but what she said next kept him from wasting too much thought on it.

"You'll never find him. He's safe from you."

Chance had to leave the room. Right outside the door, Guerrero was waiting for him. Of course he had listened in.

"I can make her talk, you know", was all he said.

Chance didn't hesitate.

"Then do it!"

He ran up the stairs leading to the roof, desperate for fresh air.


	83. Chapter 83

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_**A/N: Thank you, jackattack, for your reviews! It means a lot to me! **_

* * *

><p><em>Gone with the wind.<em>

Of course.

_That's _what Philippa had mumbled down in Winston's office and he hadn't quite caught. Now, as Chance was standing on the warehouse's roof, staring into the darkening, definitely not New Zealand sky, the sound of it came back to him and suddenly it made sense.

Gone with the wind.

Ashley Wilkes.

Respectful, honorable, gentlemanly, impractical Ashley Wilkes who only wanted to live his life in peace and lost everything in a war that wasn't his.

How goddamn fitting.

Juliet had lost everything because of him – he had turned her whole life upside down, sent her on a desperate flight and in the end she had died… alone, in pain, scared.

Chance didn't cry very often, but…

"You can't do this!"

He hadn't even heard Ilsa coming up the stairs.

"You can't let Guerrero torture her!"

Chance shook his head. "Ilsa, go home. This is not… your kind of thing."

"Don't you go all "in this business the means justify the ends" again on me, I bloody well know that", she snarled at him. "This is not business, Chance, and this is not some thug down there Guerrero can have his way with because we need to save a client. This is the woman who saved … your son…"

Ilsa still had problems saying out loud that Chance had a child. She and Marshall had tried to have children, but it never worked out. Some problem with him… They didn't push it, thinking that they'd find a solution eventually, vaguely discussed an adoption… Now Marshall was gone and she was entering an age where pregnancy wasn't a good idea anymore. The train had left the station without her really noticing it… It was so strange that Chance, of all people, Chance who led a life that was potentially hazardous to children, had a son, while she…

"She's responsible for Juliet's death. She's a killer", Chance snapped back, shaking with wrath. It was a good thing he wasn't down in Winston's office at the moment.

Ilsa hesitated. What she was about to say was the cruelest thing… but downstairs, the woman…

"And what, Christopher Chance, are you?"

He looked at her as if she had just slapped him, straight across the face.

Ilsa felt sick to her stomach, but now that she had started this, she had no choice but to go on. "That woman down there raised your son for twelve years! To him, she IS his mother! How do you think he'll feel when he finds out his father tortured her? And he WILL find out, Chance. The past _always_ comes catching up with you, right?"

There was no way to tell if her words had any impact on him. He was still just staring at her, his face this unreadable mask she had come to hate so much.

"She helped delivering him, Chance! How old was she back then? Twenty? Twenty-one maybe? She helped delivering a baby in a rundown hotel room, no doctors, no midwife, no medicine, just her and her friend. Do you have any idea what consequences something like that has? She's down there willing to go through torture _for your son_!"

Ilsa couldn't stand it anymore. She dashed back to the stairs, hell-bent on somehow stopping Guerrero.

Chance remained on the roof, shaken by her words although to an outsider there were no signs that would have given his state of mind away.

_That woman down there raised your son for twelve years._

Twelve years of running, from everyone – the police, the Old Man's enemies, him… Not only Juliet had lost everything. Gone with the wind, that went for Philippa, too.

_And what, Christopher Chance, are you?_

How many fathers had he killed? Maybe he didn't deserve being one.

The roof of the warehouse was high, but he wasn't tempted anymore. Ilsa was right, the past always comes catching up with you, one day the boy would find everything out… what did he want him to find out? That his father was a killer - yes, killer, "assassin" was nothing but a goddamn euphemism - who committed suicide in the end or that his father was a killer who tried to somehow makeup for the things he had done, as best as he could?

A brisk gust of wind coming in from the Bay, cool but not cold, blew a couple of dry leaves from the roof, made them dance in the air as they slowly floated to the ground.

Heavy footsteps first on the stairs, then on the roof, coming up behind him. Panting sounds. Winston.

"Chance, I can only vaguely imagine what you're going through, but letting Guerrero…"

He silenced him with a wave of his hand, walked past him, climbed down the stairs, made his way to Winston's office, with Winston in close pursuit, not saying a word.

In Winston's office he found Guerrero and Ilsa in something like a staring contest. The air felt like they had just exchanged a couple of not uncertain terms, with Ames watching on helplessly. Chance could tell from Guerrero's stance that Ilsa was just about to find out that she might _call_ herself his boss, but… Ilsa's face said Guerrero was about to find out just how well he had taught her.

Chance walked past them, too. He grabbed a knife from the field kit Guerrero had spread on Winston's desk, stepped in front of Philippa, bent down on his knees and cut her ties.

"Don't give me a chance to change my mind", he muttered.

She didn't. The second her ties fell off, Philippa jumped to her feet, dashed out of the room, towards the elevator, hectically pressed the button and disappeared behind its hissing doors.

Gone she was.


	84. Chapter 84

**Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_**A/N: I can't believe I'm actually finishing this – this is the longest thing I've EVER written and I would have never come so far if not for the wonderful people who helped me along the way. Thank you niagaraweasel, veniceit, PocketSevens, plasma22 and tree979, thank you so much. Without your suggestions and continuous support I would have never been able to pull this off. A big thank you also to all my other reviewers, you have no idea what feedback means to me, it puts a smile on my face and carries me through dreadful days. Last but not least, THANK YOU to all my silent readers who bore with this story for so long. I cannot put into words what a joyful experience this has been. **_

…_**and because this has been so much fun, I've decided to write a fourth season. It will be called "Isamu means" and it'll start next Monday. Maybe you'll give it a try, too?**_

* * *

><p>Ilsa insisted on paying for Sergej's funeral, much against Guerrero's wishes. They had another standoff, this time loud, long and fierce, with everyone realizing at some point that this was not really about the payment issue but about certain other, recent events.<p>

"Have you ever seen Guerrero actually arguing with someone?", Winston asked, munching. He was sharing a packet of crackers with Ames.

"Must be a first", Chance agreed, watching thoughtfully the back and forth between his friend and Ilsa through the glass walls of her office. Discussions of the slamming doors kind were usually not Guerrero's thing at all. Not that many people would have had the guts to stand up against him anyway.

At least not without sufficient armament at hand.

They couldn't understand everything that was being said. Ames had suggested slipping a bug in, but Chance had vetoed the idea, stating something about right to privacy.

"And Guerrero would notice…", Winston had added. "I wouldn't want to be in your shoes if he found out you'd been spying on him."

Ames could only agree with that.

In the end, to absolutely everyone's surprise, Guerrero gave in. Ilsa paid the funeral. Was he, with this concession, also saying that she had been right about something else?

Let's not interpret too much into it. When he left Ilsa's office, the air between them didn't feel cleared at all.

Sergej was buried on a brisk Friday morning, with whitish fog from the Bay obscuring most of the graveyard, as if the world around them had suddenly disappeared.

To Daisy, in the midst of her pregnancy, it surely felt that way. She was standing with Sergej's family, his brother's wife holding her tight throughout the service. She'd stay with them for the next few months.

As Sergej's urn was slowly lowered into the ground, Guerrero played Toby Keith's "Crying for me" on his saxophone.

Ames knew the lyrics. She tried sobbing quietly, but to her it felt as if they were not only burying Sergej, whom she had barely known, but also something else, a future that might have been. She couldn't help but cautiously peering at Chance, again and again, wondering how he was feeling now.

She wasn't the only one.

He had forbidden Guerrero to track Philippa any further and ever since they were all anxiously on the lookout for signs that might give away how he was dealing with the situation.

Remarkably well, it appeared.

He seemed to be more upbeat again, some of his old mischief was back, judging from yesterday's incident with Carmine, the tax inspector and the hidden dog biscuits. Oh boy, could the dog be insistent when food was on the line…

But a new client was scheduled to come by at noon today and the big question was, how suicidal would Chance behave while working a case? Would they have to worry every time he got involved in some physical action?

After the funeral they headed to the office together. Still more than an hour to go before their client was set to arrive. Ilsa mumbled something about paperwork, Winston started rummaging in the kitchen, Guerrero switched on a laptop in the conference room.

Ames was in a bit of a loss till Chance slapped her on the back. "Why don't you change into something more practical? I'll give you a training lesson." The light in his eyes was still missing. He had taken on a look of – resignation? That sounded too negative to describe his state.

_Stoic_ was the word, Ilsa decided as she watched Ames and Chance getting ready to spar. Apparently Chance had accepted that he was who he was, that he couldn't force anything, not through sacrifice, not through violence, neither redemption nor peace nor being a father. Maybe the memory of the Crane and his son, Isamu, played a part, too, or the sight of pregnant Daisy whose child would grow up fatherless. Maybe he had decided that all he could do was accept things as they were and strive to make himself a better man.

"Food will be ready in thirty, so don't get yourselves killed beforehand", Winston yelled from the kitchen. "Ilsa, no oversea conference calls. Guerrero, that's _my _laptop!"

The sound of the doorbell interrupted everything, but they weren't overly concerned. Probably just their client, a bit early. Guerrero checked the security cam.

His next words brought everything to a screeching halt.

"Chance, it's her. And she's not alone."

Not even waiting for Chance's reply, Guerrero buzzed the front door open and sent them the elevator.

… … …

Of course Philippa had dug around – she had barely escaped what probably would have been her death. A painful, prolonged death. Naturally she had wanted to find out more about the people who almost provided it.

_Christopher Chance. The guy you go to when no one else can help. _

At first she had laughed when she had heard that phrase – the Christopher Chance she had met had certainly not come across as someone willing to give everything, even his life, for the safety of a client. But the reports had been many. And they matched with the original description JuJu had given her of the man she had met and fallen head over heels in love with.

_"He's the best thing that's ever happened to me!"_

A week later however, that had sounded a lot different. Philippa briefly closed her eyes as the conversation she had had so many years ago with Juliet came back to her mind.

_"He's an assassin!" _

_"Well, he told you about it – don't you think this indicates he might want to, I don't know, change his ways?" _

_"Does that matter? He killed people for a living!"_

The many reports about Christopher Chance saving this client and that implied that he had indeed changed his ways. But that wasn't what had made her come back to San Francisco, to this place again.

_He had cut her ties. _

Philippa had watched her surroundings very closely after fleeing from the warehouse. No more attempts to track her down, nobody following her, nobody watching her online activities.

He had really set her free. He had given her a choice. For once she hadn't been forced to act somehow, blindly stumbling from one obstacle to the next.

He had given her a choice.

… … …

The elevator doors slid open. Out stepped a lanky boy, short blond hair, blue eyes. Half-shrugging his shoulders, he stopped and stared at them, cautious smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Carmine slowly trotted towards him.

"Hey…", he said.

**FINIS OPERIS**


End file.
